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§■!      CHARLES  DICKENS'S 


NEW 


CHRISTMAS   STOEY. 


M?P  LIERIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


I.  How  Mrs.  Lirbipkr  carried  on  the  Bcsikess. 
II.  How  THE  First  Floor  wext  to  Crowley  Castlb. 

III.  How  the  Side-Roosi  was  attended  by  a  Doctor. 

IV.  How  THE  Second  Floor  Kept  a  Dog. 

V.  How  THE  Third  Floor  knew  the  Potteries. 
VI.  How  the  Best  Attic  was  ukder  a  Cloud. 
VII.  How  the  Parlours  added  a  Few  Words. 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,   PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 
18   6   3. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


'w 


http://www.archive.org/details/charlesdickenssnOOdickiala 


m  LIRPtlPER'S  LODGINGS. 


HOW  HBS.  LIRRIPEH  CARRIED  OK  THE  BCSIKESS. 

Whoevkr  would  begin  to  be  worried  with 
letting  Lod<?ings  that  wasn't  a  lone  woman  with 
a  living  to  get  is  a  thing  inconceivable  to  me  my 
dear,  excuse  the  familiarity  but  it  comes  natural 
to  me  in  my  own  little  room  when  wishing  to 
open  my  mind  to  those  that  I  can  trust  and  I 
should  be  truly  thankful  if  they  were  all  man- 
kind but  such  is  not  so,  for  have  but  a  Furnished 
bill  in  the  window  and  your  watch  on  the  man- 
tlepiece  and  farewell  to  it  if  you  turn  your  back 
for  but  a  second  however  gentlemanly  the  man- 
ners, nor  is  being  of  your  own  Sv;x  any  safe- 
guard as  I  have  reason  in  the  form  of  sugar- 
tongs  to  know,  for  that  lady  (and  a  fine  woman 
she  was)  got  me  to  run  for  a  glass  of  water  on 
the  plea  of  going  to  be  confined,  which  certainly 
turned  out  true  but  it  was  in  the  Station-House. 

Number  Eighty-one  Norfolk  Street  Strand — 
situated  midway  between  the  City  and  St.  James's 
and  within  five  minutes'  walk  of  the  principal 
places  of  public  amusement — is  my  address.  I 
have  rented  this  house  many  years  as  the  parish 
rate-books  will  testify  and  I  could  wish  my 
landlord  was  as  alive  to  the  iatk.  as  I  am  myself, 
but  no  bless  you  not  a  half  a  pound  of  paint  to 
save  his  life  nor  so  much  my  dear  as  a  tile  upon 
the  roof  though  on  your  bended  knees. 

My  dear  you  never  have  found  Number 
Eighty-one  Norfolk  Street  Strand  advertised  in 
Bradshaw's  Railway  Guide  and  with  the  blessing 
of  Heaven  you  never  will  or  shall  so  find  it. 
Some  there  are  who  do  not  think  it  lowering 
themselves  to  make  their  names  that  cheap  and 
even  going  the  lengths  of  a  portrait  of  the  house 
not  like  it  with  a  blot  in  every  window  and  a  coach 
and  four  at  the  door,  but  what  wilt'suit  Wozen- 
ham's  lower  down  on  the  other  side  of  the  way 
will  not  suit  me,  Miss  Wozenham  having  her 
opinions  and  me  having  mine,  though  when  it 
comes  to  systematic  underbidding  capable  of 
being  proved  on  oath  in  a  court  of  justice  and 
taking  the  form  of  "If  Mrs.  Lirriper  names 
eighteen  shillings  a  week,  I  name  fifteen  and 
six"  it  then  comes  to  a  settlement  between  your- 
self and  your  conscience  supposing  for  the  sake 
of  argument  your  name  to  be  Wozenham  which 
I  am  well  aware  it  is  not  or  my  opinion  of  you 
would  be  greatly  lowered,  and  as  to  airy  bed- 
rooms and  a  night-porter  in  constant  attendance 
the  less  said  the  better,  the  bedrooms  being  stuffy 
and  the  porter  stuff. 

It  is  forty  years  ago  since  me  and  my  poor 
Lirriper  got  married  at  St.  Clement's  Danes 
where  I  now  have  a  sitting  in  a  very  pleasant 
pew  with  genteel  company  and  my  own  hassock 
and  being  partial  to  evening  service  not  too 


crowded.  My  poor  Lirriper  was  a  handsome 
figure  of  a  man  with  a  beaming  eye  and  a  voice 
a^  mellow  as  a  musical  instrument  made  of  hon- 
ey and  steel,  but  he  had  ever  been  a  free  liver 
being  in  the  commercial  traveling  line  and  trav- 
eling what  he  called  a  limekiln  road — "a  dry 
road,  Emma  my  dear,"  my  poor  Lirriper  says  to 
me  "where  I  have  to  lay  the  dust  with  one  drink 
or  another  all  day  long  and  half  the  night,  and  it 
wears  me  Emma" — and  this  led  to  his  running 
through  a  good  deal  and  might  have  run  through 
the  turnpike  too  when  that  dreadful  horse  that 
never  would  stand  still  for  a  single  instant  set 
off,  but  for  its  being  night  and  the  gate  shut  and 
consequently  took  his  wheel  my  poor  Lirriper 
and  the  gig  smashed  to  atoms  and  never  spoke 
afterwards.  He  was  a  handsome  figure  of  a 
man  and  a  man  with  a  jovial  heart  and  a  sweet 
temper,  but  if  they  had  come  up  then  they  never 
could  have  given  you  the  mello^vness  of  his  voice, 
and  indeed  I  consider  photographs  wanting  in 
mellowness  as  a  general  rule  and  making  you 
look  like  a  new-ploughed  field. 

My  poor  Lirriper  being  behindhand  with  the 
world  and  being  buried  at  Hatfield  church  in 
Hertfordshire,  not  that  it  was  his  native  place 
but  that  he  had  a  liking  for  the  Salisbury  Arms 
where  we  went  upon  our  wedding-day  and  passed 
as  happy  a  fortnight  as  ever  happy  was,  I  went 
round  to  the  creditors  and  I  says  "Gentlemen 
I  am  acquainted  with  the  fact  that  I  am  not  an- 
swerable for  my  late  husband's  debts  but  I  wish 
to  pay  them  for  I  am  his  lawful  wife  and  his 
good  name  is  dear  to  me.  1  am  going  into  the 
Lodgings  gentlemen  as  a  business  and  if  I 
prosjjer  every  farthing  that  my  latodiiusband 
owed  shall  be  paid  for  the  sake  of  tre  love  I 
bore  him,  by  this  right  hand."  It  took  a  long 
time  to  do  but  it  was  done,  and  the  silver 
cream-jug  which  is  between  ourselves  and  the 
bed  and  the  mattress  in  my  room  uf)-stairs  (or  it 
would  have  found  legs  so  sure  as  ever  the  Fur- 
nished bill  was  up)  being  presented  by  the  gen- 
tlemen engraved  "To  Mrs.  Lirriper  a  mark  of 
grateful  respect  for  her  honourable  conduct" 
gave  me  a  turn  which  was  too  much  for  my 
feelings,  till  Mr.  Betley  which  at  that  time  had 
the  parlours  and  loved  his  joke  says  "  Cheer  up 
Mrs.  Lirriper,  you  should  feel  as  if  it  was  only 
your  christening  and  they  were  your  godfathers 
and  godmothers  which  did  promise  for  you." 
And  it  brought  me  round,  and  I  don't  mind  con- 
fessing to  you  my  dear  that  I  then  put  a  sand- 
wich and  a  drop  of  sherry  in  a  little  basket  and 
went  down  to  Hatfield  churchyard  outside  the 
coach  and  kissed  my  hand  and  laid  it  with  a 
kind  of  a  proud  and  swelling  love  on  my  hus- 
band's grave,  though  bless  you  it  had  taken  me 
so  long  to  clear  his  name  that  my  wedding  ring 


MRS.  LIREIPEE'S  LODGINGS. 


was  worn  quite  fine  and  smooth  when  I  laid  it 
on  tlie  green  green  waving  grass. 

I  am  an  old  woman  now  and  my  good  looks 
are  gone  but  that's  me  my  dear  over  the  plate- 
warmer  and  considered  like  in  the  times  when 
you  used  to  pay  two  guineas  on  ivory  and  took 
your  chance  pretty  much  how  you  came  out, 
which  made  you  very  careful  how  you  left  it 
about  afterwards  because  people  were  turned  so 
red  and  uncomfortable  by  mostly  guessing  it 
was  somebody  else  quite  difterent,  and  there  was 
once  a  certain  person  that  had  put  his  money  in 
a  hop  business  that  came  in  one  morning  to  pay 
his  rent  and  his  respects  being  the  second  floor 
that  would  have  taken  it  down  from  its  hook 
and  put  it  in  his  breast  pocket — you  understand 
my  dear— for  the  L,  he  says,  of  the  original — 
only  there  was  no  mellowness  in  his  voice  and  I 
wouldn't  let  him,  but  his  opinion  of  it  you  may 
pather  from  his  saying  to  it  "Speak  to  me 
Emma!"  which  was  far  from  a  i-ational  obser- 
vation no  doubt  but  still  a  tribute  to  its  being  a 
likeness,  and  I  think  myself  it  was  like  me  when 
I  was  young  and  wore  that  sort  of  stays. 

But  it  was  about  the  Lodgings  that  I  was  in- 
tending to  hold  forth  and  certainly  I  ought  to 
know  something  of  the  business  having  been  in 
it  so  long,  for  it  was  early  in  the  second  year  of 
my  married  life  that  I  lost  my  poorLirriper  and 
I  set  up  at  Islington  directly  afterwards  and  aft- 
erwards came  here,  being  two  houses  and  eight 
and  thirty  years  and  some  losses  and  a  deal  of 
experience. 

Girls  are  your  first  trial  after  fixtures  and 
they  try  you  even  worse  than  what  I  call  the 
Wandering  Christians,  though  why  they  should 
roam  the  earth  looking  for  bills  and  then  com- 
ing in  and  viewing  the  apartments  and  stickling 
about  terms  and  never  at  all  wanting  them  or 
dreaming  of  taking  them  being  already  provided, 
is  a  mystery  I  should  be  thankful  to  have  ex- 
plained if  by  any  miracle  it  could  be.  It's  won- 
derful they  live  so  long  and  thrive  so  on  it  but  I 
suppose  the  exercise  makes  it  healthy,  knocking 
so  much  and  going  from  house  to  house  and  up 
and  down  stairs  all  day,  and  then  their  pretend- 
ing to  be  so  particular  and  punctual  is  a  most 
astonishing  thing,  looking  at  their  watches  and 
saj'ing  "Could  yon  give  me  the  refusal  of  the 
rooms  till  twenty  minutes  past  elcA'en  the  day 
after  to-morrow  in  the  forenoon,  and  supposing 
it  to  be  considered  essential  by  my  friend  from 
the  country  could  there  be  a  small  iron  bedstead 
put  in  the  little  room  upon  the  stairs?"  Why 
when  I  was  new  to  it  my  dear  I  used  to  con- 
sider before  I  promised  and  to  make  my  mind 
anxious  with  calculations  and  to  get  quite  wea- 
ried out  with  disappointments,  but  now  I  says 
"Certainly  by  all  means"  well  knowing  it's' a 
Wandering  Christian  and  I  shall  hear  no  more 
about  it,  indeed  by  this  time  I  know  most  of  the 
Wandering  Christians  by  sight  as  well  as  they 
know  me,  it  being  the  habit  of  each  individual 
revolving  round  London  in  that  capacity  to 
come  back  about  twice  a  year,  and  it's  very  re- 
markable that  it  runs  in  ftimilies,  and  the  chil- 
dren grow  up  to  it,  but  even  were  it  otherwise  I 
should  no  sooner  hear  of  the  friend  from  the 
country  which  is  a  certain  sign  that  I  should  nod 
and  say  to  myself  You're  a  Wandering  Chris- 
tian, though  whether  they  are  (as  I  have  heard) 
persons  of  small  property  with  a  taste  for  regu- 


lar employment  and  frequent  change  of  scene  I 
cannot  undertake  to  tell  you. 

Girls  as  I  was  beginning  to  remark  are  one 
of  your  first  and  your  lasting  troubles,  being 
like  your  teeth  which  begin  with  convulsions 
and  never  cease  tormenting  you  from  the  time 
you  cut  them  till  they  cut  you,  and  then  you 
don't  want  to  part  with  them  which  seems  hard 
but  \ve  must  all  succumb  or  buy  artificial,  and 
even  where  you  get  a  will  nine  times  out  of  ten 
you'll  get  a  dirty  face  with  it,  and  natm-ally 
lodgers  do  not  like  good  society  to  be  shown  in 
with  a  smear  of  black  across  the  nose  or  a 
smudgy  eyebrow.  Where  they  pick  the  black 
up  is  a  mystery  I  cannot  solve,  as  in  the  case  of 
the  willingest  girl  that  ever  came  into  a  house 
half  starved  poor  thing,  a  girl  so  willing  that  I 
called  her  Willing  Sophy  down  upon  her  knees 
scrubbing  early  and  late  and  ever  cheerful  but 
always  smiling  with  a  black  face.  And  I  says  to 
Sophy  "Now  Sophy  my  good  girl  have  a  regular 
day  for  your  stoves  and  keep  the  width  of  the 
Airy  between  yourself  and  the  blacking  and  do 
not  brush  your  hair  with  the  bottoms  of  the 
saucepans  and  do  not  meddle  with  the  snuft's  of 
the  candles  and  it  stands  to  reason  that  it  can 
no  longer  be"  yet  there  it  was  and  always  on 
her  nose,  which  turning  up  and  being  broad  at 
the  end  seemed  to  boast  of  it  and  caused  warn- 
ing from  a  steady  gentleman  and  excellent 
lodger  with  breakfast  by  the  week  but  a  little 
irritable  and  use  of  a  sitting-room  when  re- 
quired, his  words  being  "Mrs.  Lirriper  I  have 
arrived  at  the  point  of  admitting  that  the  Black 
is  a  man  and  a  brother,  but  only  in  a  natural 
form  and  when  it  can't  be  got  off."  Well  con- 
sequently I  put  poor  Sophy  on  to  other  work 
and  forbid  her  answering  the  door  or  answering 
a  bell  on  any  account  but  she  was  so  unfortu- 
nately willing  that  nothing  would  stop  her  fly- 
ing up  the  kitchen  stairs  whenever  a  bell  was 
heard  to  tingle.  I  put  it  to  her  "Oh  Sophy 
Sophy  for  goodness  goodness  sake  where  does  it 
come  from  ?"  To  which  that  poor  unlucky  will- 
ing mortal  bursting  out  crying  to  see  me  so  vexed 
replied  "I  took  a  deal  of  black  into  me  ma'am 
when  I  was  a  small  child  being  much  neglected 
and  I  think  it  must  be,  that  it  works  out,"  so 
it  continuing  to  work  out  of  that  poor  thing  an<i 
not  having  another  fault  to  find  with  her  I  says 
Sophy  "what  do  you  seriously  think  of  my  help- 
ing you  away  to  New  South  Wales  where  it 
might  not  be  noticed  ?"  Nor  did  I  ever  repent 
the  monej-  which  was  well  spent,  for  she  mar- 
ried the  ship's  cook  on  the  voyage  (himself  a 
Mulotter)  and  did  well  and  lived  happy,  and  so 
far  as  ever  I  heard  it  was  not  noticed  in  a  new 
state  of  society  to  her  dying  day. 

In  what  way  Miss  Wozenham  lower  down  on 
the  other  side  of  the  way  reconciled  it  to  her 
feelings  as  a  lady  (which  she  is  not)  to  entice 
Mary  Anne  Perkinsop  from  my  service  is  best 
known  to  herself,  I  do  not  know  and  I  do  not 
wish  to  know  how  opinions  are  formed  at  Wo- 
zenham's  on  any  point.  But  ]Mary  Anne  Per- 
kinsop although  I  behaved  handsomely  to  her 
and  she  behaved  unhandsomely  to  me  was  worth 
her  weight  in  gold  as  overawing  lodgers  with- 
out driving  them  away,  for  lodgers  would  be  far 
more  sparing  of  their  bells  with  Mary  Anne  than 
I  ever  knew  them  be  with  Maid  or  Mistress, 
which  is  a  great  triumph  especially  when  accom- 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


panicd  with  a  cast  in  the  eye  and  a  bag  of  bones, 
but  it  was  the  steadiness  of  her  way  with  them 
through  her  father's  having  failed  in  Pork.  It 
was  Mary  Anne's  looking  so  respectable  in  her 
person  and  being  so  strict  in  her  spirits  that  con- 
quered the  tea-and-sugarest  gentleman  (for  he 
weighed  them  both  in  a  pair  of  scales  every 
morning)  that  I  have  ever  had  to  deal  with  and 
no  lamb  grew  meeker,  still  it  afterwards  came 
round  to  me  that  Miss  Wozenham  happening  to 
pass  and  seeing  Mary  Anne  take  in  the  milk  of 
a  milkman  that  made  free  in  a  rosy-faced  way 
(I  think  no  worse  of  him)  with  every  girl  ia  the 
street  but  was  quite  frozen  up  like  the  statue  at 
Charing  Cross  by  her,  saw  Mary  Anne's  value 
in  the  lodging  business  and  went  as  high  as  one 
pound  per  quarter  more,  consequently  Mary 
Anne  with  not  a  word  betwixt  us  says  "If  yo« 
will  provide  yourself  Mi-s.  Lirriper  in  a  month- 
from  this  day /have  already  done  the  same," 
which  hurt  me  and  I  said  so,  and  she  then  hurt 
me  more  by  insinuating  that  her  fiither  having 
failed  in  Pork  had  laid  her  open  to  it. 
.  My  dear  I  do  assure  you  it's  a  harassing  thing 
to  know  what  kind  of  girls  to  give  the  preference 
to,  for  if  they  arc  lively  they  get  bell'd  off  their 
legs  and  if  they  are  slug£?ish  you  suffer  from  it 
j'ourself  in  complaints  and  if  they  are  sparkling- 
eyed  they  get  made  love  to  and  if  they  are  smart 
in  their  pei-sons  they  try  on  your  Lodger's  bon- 
nets and  if  they  are  musical  I  defy  you  to  keep 
them  away  from  bands  and  organs,  and  allowing 
for  any  difference  you  like  in  their  heads  their 
heads  will  be  always  out  of  window  just  the 
same.  And  then  what  the  gentlemen  like  in 
girls  the  ladies  don't,  which  is  fruitful  hot  water 
for  all  parties,  and  then  there's  temper  though 
such  a  temper  as  Caroline  Maxey's  I  hope  not 
often.  A  good-looking  black-eyed  girl  was  Car- 
oline and  a  comely  made  girl  to  your  cost  when 
slie  did  break  out  and  laid  about  her,  as  took 
|)lace  first  and  last  through  a  new-married  coup- 
le come  to  see  London  in  the  first  floor  and  the 
lady  very  high  and  it  was  supposed  not  liking 
the  good  looks  of  Caroline  having  none  of  her 
own  to  spare,  but  anyhow  she  did  try  Caroline 
tliougli  that  was  no  excuse.  So  one  afternoon 
Caroline  comes  down  into  the  kitchen  flushed 
and  flashing,  and  she  says  to  me  "Mrs.  Lirriper 
that  woman  in  the  first  has  aggravated  me  past 
bearing,"  I  says  "Caroline  keep  your  temper," 
Caroline  says  with  a  curdling  laugh  "  Keep  my 
temper  ?  You're  right  Mrs.  LirrJi)er,  so  I  will. 
Capital  D  her  ["bursts  out  Caroline  (you  might 
have  struck  me  into  the  centre  of  the  earth  with 
a  feather  when  she  said  it)  "I'll  give  her  a  touch 
of  the  temper  that  /  keep !"  Caroline  downs 
with  her  hair  my  dear,  screeches  and  rushes  ujj- 
stairs,  I  following  as  fast  as  my  trembling  legs 
could  bear  me,  but  before  I  got  into  the  room 
the  dinner  cloth  and  pink  and  white  service  all 
dragged  off  upon  the  floor  with  a  crash  and  the 
new  married  couple  on  their  backs  in  the  fire- 
grate, him  with  the  shovel  and  tongs  and  a  dish 
of  cucumber  across  him  and  a  mercy  it  was  sum- 
mer-time. "Caroline"  I  says  "be  calm,"  but 
she  catches  off  my  cap  and  tears  it  in  her  teeth 
as  she  passes  me,  then  pounces  on  the  new  mar- 
ried lady  makes  her  a  bundle  of  ribbons  takes 
her  by  the  two  ears  and  knocks  the  back  of  her 
head  upon  the  carpet  Murder  screaming  all  the 
time  Policemen  running  down  the  street  and 


Wozenham's  windows  (judge  of  my  feelings 
when  I  came  to  know  it)  thrown  up"  and  Miss 
Wozenham  calling  out  from  the  balcony  with 
crocodile's  tears  "It's  Mrs.  Lirriper  been  over- 
charging somebody  to  madness — she'll  be  mur- 
dered—  I  always  thought  so  —  Pleeseman  save 
her!"  My  dear  four  of  them  and  Caroline  be-, 
hind  the  cbiffoniere  attacking  with  the  poker 
and  when  disarmed  prize  fighting  with  her 
double  fists,  and  down  and  up  and  up  and  down 
and  dreadful !  But  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  the 
poor  young  creature  roughly  handled  and  her 
iiair  torn  when  they  got  the  better  of  her,  and  I 
says  "  Gentlemen  Policemen  pray  remember 
that  her  sex  is  the  sex  of  your  mothers  and  sis- 
ters and  your  sweethearts,  and  God  bless  them 
and  you!"  And  there  she  was  sitting  down  ou 
the  ground  handcuffed,  taking  breath  against  the 
skirting-board  and  them  cool  with  their  coats  in 
strips,  and  all  she  says  was  "  Mrs.  Lirrii>cr  I  am 
sorry  as  ever  I  touched  you,  for  you're  a  kind 
motherly  old  thing,"  and  it  made  me  think  that 
I  had  often  wished  I  had  been  a  mother  indeed 
and  how  would  my  heart  have  felt  if  I  had  been 
the  mother  of  that  girl !  Well  you  know  it 
turned  out  at  the  Police-ofiice  that  she  had  done 
it  before,  and  she  had  her  clothes  away  and  was 
sent  to  prison,  and  when  she  was  to  come  out  I 
trotted  oft"  to  the  gate  in  the  evening  with  just  a 
morsel  of  jelly  in  that  little  basket  of  mine  to 
give  her  a  mite  of  strength  to  face  the  world 
again,  and  there  I  met  with  a  very  decent  moth- 
er waiting  for  her  son  through  bad  company  and 
a  stubborn  one  he  was  with  his  half  boots  not 
laced.  So  out  came  Caroline  and  I  s.iys  "Car- 
oline come  along  with  me  and  sit  down  under 
the  wall  where  it's  retired  and  eat  a  little  trifle 
that  I  have  brought  with  me  to  do  you  good" 
and  she  throws  her  arms  round  my  neck  and 
says  sobbing  "O  why  were  you  never  a  mother 
when  there  are  such  mothers  as  there  are!"  she 
says,  and  in  half  a  minute  more  she  begins  to 
laugh  and  says  "Did  I  really  tear  your  cap  to 
shreds?"  and  when  I  told  her  "You  certainly 
did  so  Caroline"  she  laughed  again  and  said 
while  she  patted  my  face  "Then  why  do  you 
wear  such  queer  old  caps  you  dear  old  thing? 
If  you  hadn't  worn  such  queer  old  caps  I  don't 
think  I  should  have  done  it  even  then."  Fancy 
the  girl!  Nothing  could  get  out  of  her  what 
she  was  going  to  do  except  O  she  would  do  well 
enough,  and  we  parted  she  being  very  thankful 
and  kissing  my  hands,  and  I  never  more  saw  or 
heard  of  that  girl,  except  that  I  shall  always  be- 
lieve that  a  very  genteel  cap  whicli  was  brought 
anonymous  to  me  one  Saturday  night  in  an  oil- 
skin basket  by  a  most  impertinent  young  spar- 
row of  a  monkey  whistling  with  dirty  shoes  on 
the  clean  steps  and  playing  the  harp  on  the  Airy 
railings  with  a  hoop-stick  came  from  Caroline. 

What  you  lay  yourself  open  to  my  dear  in  the 
way  of  being  the  object  of  uncharitai)le  suspi- 
cions wnen  you  go  into  the  Lodging  business  I 
have  not  the  words  to  tell  you,  but  never  wjis  I 
so  dishonourable  as  to  have  two  keys  nor  would 
I  willingly  think  it  even  of  Miss  Wozenham, 
lower  down  on  the  other  side  of  the  way  sincere- 
ly hoping  that  it  may  not  be,  though  doubtless 
at  the  same  time  money  cannot  come  from  no- 
where and  it  is  not  reason  to  suppose  that  Brad-  , 
shaws  put  it  in  for  love  be  it  blotty  as  it  may. 
It  is  a  hardship  hurting  to  the  feelings  that 


MRS.  LIRRirER'S  LODGINGS. 


Lodgers  open  their  minds  so  wide  to  the  idea 
that  vou  are  trj'ing  to  get  the  better  of  them  and 
shut  their  minds  so  close  to  the  idea  that  they 
are  trying  to  get  the  better  of  you,  but  as  Slajor 
Jackman  says  to  me  "I  know  the  ways  of  this 
circular  world  Mrs.  Lirriper,  and  that's  one  of 
'em  all  round  it"  and  many  is  the  little  ruffle  in 
my  mind  that  the  Major  has  smoothed,  for  lie  is 
a  clever  man  who  has  seen  much.  Dear  dear, 
thirteen  years  have  passed  though  it  seems  but 
yesterday  since  I  was  sitting  with  my  glasses  on 
at  the  open  front  parlour  window  one  evening  in 
August  (the  parlours  being  then  vacant)  reading 
yesterday's  paper  my  eyes  for  print  being  poor 
though  still  I  am  thankful  to  say  a  long  sight  at 
a  distance,  when  I  hear  a  gentleman  come  post- 
ing across  the  road  and  up  the  street  in  a  dread- 
ful rage  talking  to  himself  in  a  fury  and  d'ing 
and  c'ing  somebody.  "By  George  I"  says  he 
out  loud  and  clutching  his  walking-stick,  "  I'll 
go  to  Mrs.  Lirriper's.  Which  is  Mrs.  Lirri- 
per's  ?"  Then  looking  round  and  seeing  me  he 
flourishes  his  hat  right  off  his  head  as  if  I  had 
been  the  queen  and  he  says  "Excuse  the  intru- 
sion Madam,  but  pray  Madam  can  you  tell  me 
at  what  number  in  this  street  there  resides  a 
well-known  and  much  -  respected  lady  by  the 
name  of  Lirriper?"  A  little  flustered  though  I 
must  say  gratified  I  took  off  my  glasses  and  curt- 
seyed and  said  "  Sir,  Mrs.  Lirrijier  is  your  hum- 
ble servant."  "As-tonishing  !"  said  he,  "A 
million  pardons!  Madam,  may  I  ask  you  to 
have  the  kindness  to  direct  one  of  your  domestics 
to  open  the  door  to  a  gentleman  in  search  of 
apartments,  by  the  name  of  Jackman  ?"  I  had 
never  heard  the  name  but  a  politer  gentleman  I 
never  hope  to  see,  for  says  he  "  ^ladam  I  am 
shocked  at  your  opening  the  door  yourself  to  no 
worthier  a  fellow  than  Jemmy  Jackman.  After 
you  Aladam.  I  never  precede  a  lady."  Then 
he  com,es  into  the  parlours  and  he  sniffs  and  he 
says  "Hah!  These  are  parlours !  Not  musty 
cupboards"  he  says  "but  parlours,  and  no  smell 
of  coal-sacks."  Now  my  dear  it  having  been  re- 
marked by  some  inimical  to  the  whole  neigh- 
bourhood that  it  always  smells  of  coal -sacks 
wKich  might  prove  a  drawback  to  Lodgers  if  en- 
couraged, I  says  to  the  Major  gently  though  firm- 
ly that  1  think  he  is  referring  to  Arundel  or 
[Surrey  or  Howard  but  not  Norfolk.  "  Madam" 
says  he  "I  refer  to  Wozenham's  lower  down 
over  the  way — Madam  you  can  form  no  notion 
what  Wozenham's  is — Madam  it  is  a  vast  coal- 
sack,  and  Miss  Wozenham  has  the  principles 
and  manners  of  a  female  heaver — Madam  from 
the  manner  in  which  I  have  heard  her  mention 
you  I  know  she  has  no  appreciation  of  a  lady, 
and  from  the  manner  in  which  she  has  conduct- 
ed herself  towards  me  I  know  she  has  no  appre- 
ciation of  a  gentleman  —  Madam  my  name  is 
Jackman — should  you  require  any  other  refer- 
ence than  what  I  have  already  said,  I  name  the 
Bank  of  England — perhaps  you  know  it !"  Such 
was  the  beginning  of  the  Major's  occupying  the 
parlours  and  from  that  hour  to  this  the  same 
and  a  most  obliging  Lodger  and  punctual  in  all 
respects  except  one  irregular  which  I  need  not 
particularly  specify,  but  made  up  for  by  his  be- 
ing a  protection  and  at  all  times  ready  to  fill  in 
the  papers  of  the  Assessed  Taxes  and  Juries  and 
that,  and  once  collared  a  young  man  with  the 
drawing-room  clock  under  his  cloak,  and  once 


on  the  parapets  with  his  own  hands  and  blank- 
ets put  out  the  kitchen  chimney  and  afterwards 
attending  the  summons  made  a  most  eloquent 
speech  against  the  Parish  before  the  magistrates 
and  saved  the  engine,  and  ever  quite  the  gentle- 
man though  passionate.  And  certainly  Miss 
Wozenham's  detaining  the  trunks  and  umbrella 
was  not  iu  a  liberal  spirit  though  it  may  have 
been  according  to  her  rights  in  law  or  an  act  1 
would  myself  have  stooped  to,  the  JNLnjor  being 
so  much  the  gentleman  that  though  he  is  fiir 
from  tall  he  seems  almost  so  when  he  has  his 
shirt  frill  out  and  his  frock-coat  on  and  his  hat 
with  the  curly  brims,  and  in  what  service  he  was 
I  cannot  truly  tell  you  my  dear  whether  Militia 
or  Foreign,  for  I  never  heard  him  even  name 
himself  as  Major  but  always  simple  "Jemmy 
Jackman"  and  once  soon  after  he  came  when  I 
felt  it  my  duty  to  let  him  know  that  Miss  Wo- 
zenham had  put  it  about  that  he  was  no  Major 
and  I  took  the  liberty  of  adding  "  which  you  are 
sir"  his  words  were  "  Madam  at  any  rate  I  am 
not  a  Minor,  and  snfiicient  for  the  day  is  the 
evil  thereoP'  which  cannot  be  denied  to  be  the 
sacred  truth,  nor  yet  his  military  ways  of  having 
his  boots  with  only  tlie  dirt  brushed  off  taken  to 
him  in  the  front  parlour  every  morning  on  a 
dean  plate  and  varnishing  them  himself  with  a 
little  sponge  and  a  saucer  and  a  whistle  in  a 
whisper  so  sure  as  ever  his  breakfast  is  ended, 
and  so  neat  his  ways  that  it  never  soils  his  linen 
which  is  scrupulous  though  more  in  quality  than 
quantity,  neither  that  nor  his  moustachios  which 
to  the  best  of  my  belief  are  done  at  the  same 
time  and  which  are  as  black  and  shining  as  his 
boots,  his  head  of  hair  being  a  lovely  white. 

It  was  the  third  year  nearly  up  of  the  Major's 
being  in  the  parlours  that  early  one  morning  in 
the  month  of  February  when  Parliament  was 
coming  on  and  you  may  therefore  suppose  a 
number  of  impostors  were  about  ready  to  take 
hold  of  anything  they  could  get,  a  gentleman 
and  lady  from  the  country  came  in  to  view  the 
Second,  and  I  well  remember  that  I  had  been 
looking  out  of  window  and  had  watched  them 
and  the  heavy  sleet  driving  down  the  street  to- 
gether looking  for  bills.  I  did  not  quite  take  to 
tlie  face  of  the  gentleman  though  he  was  good- 
looking  too  but  the  lady  was  a  very  pretty  young 
thing  and  delicate,  and  it  seemed  too  rough  for 
her  to  be  out  at  all  though  she  had  only  come 
from  the  Adel]jhi  Hotel  which  would  not  have 
been  much  above  a  qu.irter  of  a  mile  if  the 
weather  had  been  less  severe.  Now  it  did  so 
happen  my  dear  that  I  had  been  forced  to  put 
five  shillings  weekly  additional  on  the  second  in 
consequence  of  a  loss  from  running  away  full- 
dressed  as  if  going  out  to  a  dinner-party,  which 
was  very  artful  and  had  made  me  rather  suspi- 
cious taking  it  along  with  Parliament,  so  when 
the  gentleman  proposed  three  months  certain 
and  the  money  in  advance  and  leave  then  re- 
served to  renew  on  the  same  terms  for  six 
months  more,  I  says  I  was  not  quite  certain  but 
that  I  might  have'  engaged  myself  to  another 
party  but  would  step  down  stairs  and  look  into 
it  if* they  would  take  a  seat.  They  took  a  seat 
and  I  went  down  to  the  handle  of  the  JIajor's 
door  that  I  had  already  began  to  consult  finding 
it  a  great  blessing,  and  I  knew  by  his  whistling 
in  a  whisper  that  he  was  varnishing  his  boots 
which  was  generally  considered  private,  howev- 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


er  he  kindly  calls  out  "  If  it's  you,  Madam,  come 
in,"  and  I  went  in  and  told  him. 

"Well,  Madam,"  says  the  Major  rubbing  his 
nose  —  as  I  did  fear  at  the  moment  with  the 
black  sponge  but  it  was  only  his  knuckle,  he  be- 
ing always  neat  and  dexterous  with  his  fingers 
— "well.  Madam,  I  suppose  you  would  be  glad 
of  the  money?" 

I  was  delicate  of  saying  "Yes"  too  out,  for  a  lit- 
tle extra  colour  rose  into  the  Major's  cheeks  and 
there  was  irregularity  which  I  will  not  particu- 
larly specify  in  a  quarter  which  I  will  not  name. 

"I  am  of  opinion,  Madam,"  sajs  the  Major 
"  that  when  money  is  ready  for  you — when  it  is 
ready  for  you  Mrs,  Lirriper — you  ought  to  take 
it.  What  is  there  against  it,  Madam,  in  this 
case  up-stairs?" 

"  I  really  cannot  say  there  is  anything  against 
it  sir,  still  I  thought  I  would  consult  you. " 

"  You  said  a  newly-married  couple,  I  think, 
Madam,"  says  the  Major. 

I  says  "  Ye-es.  Evidently.  And  indeed  the 
young  lady  mentioned  to  me  in  a  casual  way  that 
she  had  not  been  married  many  months." 

The  Major  rubbed  his  nose  again  and  stirred 
the  varnish  round  and  round  in  its  little  saucer 
with  his  piece  of  sponge  and  took  to  his  whis- 
tling in  a  whisper  for  a  few  moments.  Then  he 
says  "  You  would  call  it  a  Good  Let,  Madam?" 

"  Oh  certainly  a  Good  Let  sir." 

*'  Say  they  renew  for  the  additional  six 
months.  Would  it  put  you  about  very  much 
Madam  if — if  the  worst  was  to  come  to  the 
worst  ?"  said  the  Major. 

"Well  I  hardly  know,"  I  says  to  the  Major. 
"It  depends  upon  circumstances.  Would  you 
object  sir  for  instance?" 

"I?"  says  the  Major.  "Object?  Jemmy 
Jackman  ?  Mrs.  Lirriper  close  with  the  pro- 
posal." 

So  I  went  up-stairs  and  accepted,  and  they 
came  in  next  day  which  was  Saturday  and  the 
Major  was  so  good  as  to  draw  up  a  Memoran- 
dum of  an  agreement  in  a  beautiful  round  hand 
and  expressions  that  sounded  to  me  equally  le- 
gal andi  military,  and  IMr.  Edson  signed  it  on  the 
Monday  morning  and  the  Major  called  upon  Mr. 
Edson  on  the  Tuesday  and  Mr.  Edson  called 
upon  the  Major  on  the  Wednesday  and  the  Sec- 
ond and  the  parloui-s  were  as  friendly  as  could  be 
wished. 

The  three  months  paid  for  had  run  out  and  we 
had  got  without  any  fresh  overtures  as  to  pay- 
ment into  Slay  my  dear,  when  there  came  an 
obligation  upon  Mr.  Edson  to  go  a  business  ex- 
pedition right  across  the  Isle  of  Man,  which  fell 
quite  unexpected  on  that  pretty  little  thing  and 
is  not  a  place  that  according  to  my  views  is  par- 
ticularly in  the  way  to  anywhere  at  any  time  but 
that  may  be  a  matter  of  opinion.  So  short  a 
notice  was  it  that  he  was  to  go  next  day,  and 
dreadfully  she  cried  poor  pretty  and  I  am  sure  I 
cried  too  when  I  saw  her  on  the  cold  pavement 
in  the  sharp  east  wind — it  being  a  very  back- 
ward spring  that  year — taking  a  last  leave  of  him 
with  her  pretty  bright  hair  blowing  this  way  and 
that  and  her  arms  clinging  round  his  neck  and 
him  saying  "There  there  there!  Now  let  me 
go  Peggy."  And  by  that  time  it  was  plain  that 
what  the  Major  had  been  so  accommodating  as 
to  say  he  would  not  object  to  happening  in  the 
house,  would  happen  in  it,  and  I  told  her  as 


much  when  he  was  gone  while  I  comforted  her 
with  my  arm  up  the  staircase,  for  I  says  "Yon 
will  soon  have  others  to  keep  up  for  my  pretty 
and  you  must  think  of  that." 

His  letter  never  came  when  it  ought  to  have 
come  and  what  she  went  through  morning  after 
morning  when  the  postman  brought  none  for 
her  the  very  postman  himself  compassionated 
when  she  ran  down  to  the  door,  and  yet  we  can- 
not wonder  at  its  being  calculated  to  blunt  the 
feelings  to  have  all  the  trouble  of  other  people's 
letters  and  none  of  the  pleasure  and  doing  it  of- 
tener  in  the  mud  and  mizzle  than  not  and  at  a 
rate  of  wages  more  resembling  Little  Britain 
than  Great.  But  at  last  one  morning  when  she 
was  too  poorly  to  come  running  down  stairs  he 
says  to  me  with  a  pleased  look  in  his  face  that 
made  me  next  to  love  the  man  in  his  uniform 
coat  though  he  was  dripping  wet  "  I  have  taken 
you  first  in  the  street  this  morning  Mrs.  Lirriper, 
for  here's  the  one  for  Mrs.  Edson."  I  went  up 
to  her  bedroom  with  it  fast  as  ever  I  could  go, 
and  she  sat  up  in  bed  when  she  saw  it  and  kiss- 
ed it  and  tore  it  open  and  then  a  blank  stare 
came  upon  her.  "It's  very  short !"  she  says  lift- 
ing her  large  eyes  to  my  face.  "  O  Mrs.  Lirri- 
per it's  very  short !"  I  says  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Ed- 
son no  doubt  that's  because  your  husband  hadn't 
time  to  write  more  just  at  that  time."  "No 
doubt,  no  doubt,"  says  she,  and  puts  her  two 
hands  on  her  face  and  turns  round  in  her  bed. 

I  shut  her  softly  in  and  I  crept  down  stairs 
and  I  tapped  at  the  Major's  door,  and  when  the 
Major  having  his  thin  slices  of  bacon  in  his  own 
Dutch  oven  saw  me  ho  came  out  of  his  chair 
and  put  me  down  on  the  sofa.  "Hush!"  says 
he,  "I  see  something's  the  matter.  Don't  speak 
— take  time."  I  says  "  O  Major  I'm  afraid  there's 
cruel  work  up-stairs."  "Yes  yes"  says  he  "I 
had  begun  to  be  afraid  of  it — take  time."  And 
then  in  opposition  to  his  own  words  he  rages 
out  frightfully,  and  says  "I  shall  never  forgive 
myself  Madam,  that  I,  Jemmy  Jackman,  didn't 
see  it  all  that  morning — didn't  go  straight  up- 
stairs when  my  boot-sponge  was  in  my  hand — 
didn't  force  it  down  his  throat — and  choke  him 
dead  with  it  on  the  spot !" 

The  Major  and  me  agreed  when  we  came  to 
ourselves  that  just  at  present  we  could  do  no 
more  than  take  on  to  suspect  nothing  and  use 
our  best  endeavours  to  keep  that  poor  young 
creature  quiet,  and  what  I  ever  should  have  done 
without  the  Major  when  it  got  about  among  the 
organ -men  that  quiet  was  onr  object  is  un- 
known, for  he  made  lion  and  tiger  war  upon 
them  to  that  degree  that  without  seeing  it  I 
could  not  have  believed  it  was  in  any  gentleman 
to  have  such  a  power  of  bursting  out  with  fire- 
irons  walking-sticks  water -jugs  coals  potatoes 
off  his  table  the  very  hat  oflF  his  head,  and  at 
the  same  time  so  furious  in  foreign  languages 
that  they  would  stand  with  their  handles  half 
turned  fixe^ike  the  Sleeping  Ugly — for  I  can- 
not say  Beauty. 

Ever  to  see  the  postman  come  near  the  house 
now  gave  me  such  a  fear  that  it  was  a  reprieve 
when  he  went  by,  but  in  about  another  ten  days 
or  a  fortnight  he  says  again  "  Here's  one  for 
Mrs.  Edson.  —  Is  she  pretty  well?"  "She  is 
pretty  well  postman,  but  not  well  enough  to  rise 
so  early  as  she  used"  which  was  so  far  gospel- 
truth. 


8 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


I  carried  the  letter  in  to  the  Major  at  his 
breakfast  and  I  says  tottering  "  Major  I  have  not 
the  courage  to  take  it  up  to  her." 

"It's  an  ill-looking  villain  of  a  letter,"  says 
the  Major. 

"I  have  not  the  courage  Major"  I  says  again 
in  a  tremble  "to  take  it  up  to  her." 

After  seeming  lost  in  consideration  for  some 
moments  the  Major  says,  raising  his  head  as  if 
something  new  and  useful  had  occurred  to  his 
mind  "Mre.  Lirrii)er,  I  shall  never  forgive  my- 
self that  I,  Jemmy  Jackman,  didn't  go  straight 
np-stairs  that  morning  when  my  boot-sponge  was 
in  my  hand — and  force  it  down  his  throat — and 
choke  him  dead  with  it." 

"Major"  I  says  a  little  hasty  "you  didn't  do 
it  which  is  a  blessing,  for  it  would  have  done  no 
good  and  I  think  your  sponge  was  better  em- 
ployed on  your  own  honourable  boots." 

So  we  got  to  be  rational,  and  planned  that  I 
should  tap  at  her  bedroom  door  and  lay  the  let- 
ter on  the  mat  outside  and  wait  on  the  upper 
landing  for  what  might  happen,  and  never  was 
gunpowder  cannon-balls  or  shells  or  rockets 
more  dreaded  than  that  dreadful  letter  was  by 
me  as  I  took  it  to  the  second  floor. 

A  t^ible  loud  scream  sounded  through  the 
house  the  minute  after  she  had  opened  it,  and 
I  found  her  on  the  floor  lying  as  if  her  life  was 
gone.  My  dear  I  never  looked  at  the  face  of  the 
letter  which  was  lying  open  by  her,  for  there  was 
no  occasion. 

Everything  I  needed  to  bring  her  round  the 
Major  brought  up  with  his  own  hands,  besides 
running  out  to  the  chemist's  for  what  was  not 
in  the  house  and  likewise  having  the  fiercest  of 
all  his  many  skirmishes  with  a  musical  instru- 
ment representing  a  ball-room  I  do  not  know  in 
what  particular  country  and  company  waltzing 
in  and  out  at  folding-doors  with  rolling  eyes. 
When  after  a  long  time  I  saw  her  coming  to,  I 
slipped  on  the  landing  till  I  heard  her  cry,  and 
then  I  went  in  and  says  cheerily  "Mrs.  Edson 
you're  not  well  my  dear  and  it's  not  to  be  won- 
dered at,"  as  if  I  had  not  been  in  before.  Wheth- 
er she  believed  or  disbelieved  I  cannot  say  and 
it  would  signify  nothing  if  I  could,  but  I  stayed 
by  her  for  hours  and  then  she  God  ever  blesses 
me !  and  says  she  will  try  to  rest  for  her  head  is 
bad. 

"Major,"  I  whispers,  looking  in  at  the  par- 
lours, "  I  beg  and  pray  of  you  don't  go  out." 

The  Major  whispers  "Madam,  trust  me  I  will 
do  no  such  a  thing.     How  is  she  ?" 

I  says  "Major  the  good  Lord  above  us  only 
knows  what  bums  and  rages  in  her  poor  mind. 
I  left  her  sitting  at  her  window.  I  am  going  to 
sit  at  mine." 

It  came  on  afternoon  and  it  came  on  evening. 
Norfolk  is  a  delightful  street  to  lodge  in — pro- 
vided you  don't  go  lower  down — but  of  a  sum- 
mer evening  when  the  dust  and  waste  paper  lie 
in  it  and  stray  children  play  in  it  and  a  kind  of 
a  gritty  calm  and  bake  settles  on  it  and  a  peal 
of  church-bells  is  practising  in  the  neighbour- 
hood it  is  a  trifle  dull,  and  never  have  I  seen  it 
since  at  such  a  time  and  never  shall  I  see  it  ev- 
ermore at  such  a  time  without  seeing  the  dull 
June  evening  when  that  forlorn  young  creature 
sat  at  her  open  corner  window  on  the  second 
and  me  at  my  open  corner  window  Ciho  other 
corner)  on  the  third.    Something  merciful,  some- 


thing wiser  and  better  far  than  my  own  self,  had 
moved  me  while  it  was  yet  light  to  sit  in  my 
bonnet  and  shawl,  and  as  the  shadows  fell  and 
the  tide  rose  I  could  sometimes — when  I  put  out 
my  head  and  looked  at  her  window  below — see 
that  she  leaned  out  a  little  looking  down  the 
street.  It  was  just  settling  dark  wlicn  I  saw  her 
in  the  street. 

So  fearful  of  losing  sight  of  her  that  it  almost 
stops  my  breath  while  I  tell  it,  I  went  down 
stairs  faster  than  I  ever  moved  in  all  my  life 
and  only  tapped  with  my  hand  at  the  Blajor's 
door  in  passing  it  and  slipping  out.  She  was 
gone  already.  I  made  the  same  speed  down  the 
street  and  when  I  came  to  the  corner  of  Howard- 
street  I  saw  that  she  had  turned  it  and  was  tliere 
plain  before  me  going  towards  the  west.  O  with 
what  a  thankful  heart  I  saw  her  going  along ! 

She  was  quite  unacquainted  with  London  and 
had  very  seldom  been  out  for  more  than  an  air- 
ing in  our  own  street  where  she  knew  two  or 
three  little  children  belonging  to  neighbours  and 
had  sometimes  stood  among  them  at  the  end  of 
the  street  looking  at  the  water.  She  must  be 
going  at  hazard  I  knew,  still  she  kept  the  by- 
streets quite  correctly  as  long  as  they  would 
serve  her,  and  then  turned  up  into  the  Strand. 
But  at  every  corner  I  could  see  her  head  turned 
one  way,  and  that  way  was  always  the  river  way. 

It  may  have  been  only  the  darkness  and  quiet 
of  the  Adelphi  that  caused  her  to  strike  into  it 
but  she  struck  into  it  much  as  readily  as  if  she 
had  set  out  to  go  there,  which  perhaps  was  the 
case.  She  went  straight  down  to  the  Terrace 
and  along  it  and  looked  over  the  iron  rail,  and 
I  often  woke  afterwards  in  my  own  bed  with  the 
horror  of  seeing  her  doing  it.  The  desertion  of 
the  wharf  below  and  the  flowing  of  the  high  wa- 
ter there  seemed  to  settle  her  purpose.  She  look- 
ed about  as  if  to  make  out  the  way  down,  and 
she  struck  out  the  right  way  or  the  wrong  way 
— I  don't  know  which,  for  I  don't  know  the  place 
before  or  since — and  I  followed  her  the  way  she 
went. 

'  It  was  noticeable  that  all  this  time  she  never 
once  looked  back.  But  there  was  now  a  great 
change  in  the  manner  of  her  going,  and  instead 
of  going  at  a  steady  quick  walk  with  her  arms 
folded  before  her, — among  the  dark  dismal  arch- 
es she  went  in  a  wild  way  with  her  arms  opened 
wide,  as  if  they  were  wings  and  she  was  flying 
to  her  death. 

We  were  on  the  wharf  and  she  stopped.  I 
stopped,  I  saw  her  hands  at  her  bonnet-strings, 
and  I  rushed  between  her  and  the  brink  and  took 
her  round  the  waist  with  both  my  arms.  She 
might  have  drowned  me,  I  felt  then,  but  she 
could  never  have  got  quit  of  me. 

Down  to  that  moment  my  mind  had  been  all 
in  a  maze  and  not  half  an  idea  had  I  had  in  ic 
what  I  should  say  to  her,  but  the  instant  I  touch- 
ed her  it  came  to  me  like  magic  and  I  had  my 
natural  voice  and  my  senses  and  even  almost  my 
breath. 

' '  Mrs.  Edson  ! "  I  says  ' '  My  dear !  Take  care. 
How  ever  did  you  lose  your  way  and  stumble  on 
a  dangerous  place  like  this?  Why  you  must 
have  come  here  by  the  most  perplexing  streets 
in  all  London.  No  wonder  you  are  lost,  I  am 
sure.  And  this  place  too !  Why  I  thought  no- 
body ever  got  here,  except  me  to  order  my  oor,!? 
and  the  Major  in  the  parlours  to  smoke  his  cigavl" 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


— for  I  saw  that  blessed  man  close  by,  pretend- 
ing to  it. 

"  Hah — Hah — Ham  I"  coughs  the  Major. 

"  And  good  gracious  me"  I  says,  "  why  here 
he  is!" 

"Halloa!  who  goes  there!"  says  the  Major 
iu  a  military  manner. 

"Well!"  I  says,  "if  this  don't  beat  every- 
thing !    Don't  you  know  us  Major  Jackman  ?" 

"Halloa!"  says  the  Major.  "Who  calls  on 
Jemmy  Jackman  ?"  (and  more  out  of  breath  he' 
was,  and  did  it  less  like  life,  than  I  should  have 
expected). 

"Why  here's  Mrs.  Edson  Major"  I  says, 
"strolling  out  to  cool  her  poor  head  which  has 
been  very  bad,  has  missed  her  way  and  got  lost, 
and  Goodness  knows  where  she  might  have  got 
to  but  for  me  coming  here  to  drop  an  order  into 
my  coal  merchant's  letter-box  and  you  coming 
here  to  smoke  your  cigar! — And  you  really  are 
not  well  enough  my  dear"  I  says  to  her  "  to  be 
half  so  far  from  home  without  me. — And  your 
arm  will  be  veiy  acceptable  I  am  sure  JIajor"  I 
says  to  him  "and  I  know  she  may  lean  upon  it 
as  heavy  as  she  likes."  And  now  we  had  both 
got  hsr — thanks  be  Above ! — one  on  each  side. 

She  was  idl  in  a  cold  shiver  and  she  so  con- 
tinued till  I  laid  her  on  her  own  bed,  and  up  to 
the  early  morning  she  held  me  by  the  hand  and 
moaned  and  moaned  "  O  wicked,  wicked,  wick- 
ed!"  But  when  at  last  I  made  believe  to  droop 
my  head  and  be  overpowered  with  a  dead  sleep, 
I  heard  that  poor  young  creature  give  such 
toucliing  and  such  humble  thanks  for  being  pre- 
served from  taking  her  own  life  in  her  madness 
that  I  thought  I  should  have  cried  my  eyes  out 
on  the  counterpane  and  I  knew  she  was  safe. 

Being  well  enough  to  do  and  able  to  afford  it, 
me  and  the  Major  laid  our  little  plans  next  day 
while  she  was  asleep  worn  out,  and  so  I  says  to 
her  as  soon  as  I  could  do  it  nicely : 

"Mrs.  Edson  my  dear,  when  Mr.  Edson  paid 
me  the  rent  for  these  further  six  months " 

She  gave  a  start  and  I  felt  her  large  eyes  look 
at  me,  but  I  went  on  with  it  and  with  my  nee- 
dlework. 

" 1  can't  say  that  I  am  quite  sure  I  dated 

the  receipt  riglit.    Could  you  let  me  look  at  it?" 

She  laid  her  frozen  cold  hand  upon  mine  and 
she  looked  through  me  when  I  was  forced  to 
look  up  from  my  needlework ;  but  I  had  taken 
the  precaution  of  having  on  my  spectacles. 

"  I  have  no  receipt''  says  she. 

"  Ah !  Then  he  has  got  it"  I  says  in  a  care- 
less way.  "It's  of  no  great  consequence.  A 
receipt's  a  receipt." 

From  that  time  she  always  had  hold  of  my 
hand  when  I  could  spare  it  which  was  generally 
only  when  I  read  to  her,  for  of  course  she  and 
me  had  our  bits  of  needlework  to  plod  at  and 
neither  of  us  was  very  handy  at  those  little 
things,  though  I  am  still  rather  proud  of  my 
share  in  them  too  considering.  And  though  she 
took  to  all  I  read  to  her,  I  used  to  fancy  that 
next  to  what  was  taught  upon  the  Mount  she 
took  most  of  all  to  His  gentle  compassion  for  us 
poor  women  and  to  His  young  life  and  to  how 
His  mother  was  proud  of  him  and  treasured  His 
sayings  in  her  heart.  She  had  a  grateful  look 
in  her  eyes  that  never  never  never  will  be  out  of 
mine  until  they  are  closed  in  my  last  sleep,  and 
when  I  chanced  to  look  at  her  without  thinking 
2 


of  it  I  would  always  meet  that  look,  and  she 
would  often  offer  me  her  trembling  lip  to  kiss, 
much  more  like  a  little  affectionate  half-broken- 
hearted child  than  ever  I  can  imagine  any  grown 
person. 

One  time  the  trembling  of  this  poor  lip  was 
so  strong  and  her  tears  ran  down  so  fast  that  I 
thought  she  was  going  to  tell  me  all  her  woe,  so 
I  takes  her  two  hands  in  mine  and  I  says : 

"No  my  dear  not  now,  you  had  best  not  try 
to  do  it  now.  Wait  for  better  times  when  you 
have  got  over  this  and  are  strong,  and  then  you 
shall  tell  me  whatever  you  will.  Shall  it  be 
agreed?" 

With  our  hands  still  joined  she  nodded  her 
head  many  times,  and  she  lifted  my  hands  and 
put  them  to  her  lips  and  to  her  bosom. 

"Only  one  word  now  my  dear"  I  says.  "Is 
there  any  one  ?" 

She  looked  inquiringly  "Any  one?" 

"That  I  can  goto?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No  one  that  I  can  bring?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No  one  is  wanted  by  me  my  dear.  Now 
that  may  be  considered  past  and  gone." 

Not  much  more  than  a  week  afterwards — for 
this  was  far  on  in  the  time  of  our  being  so  to- 
gether— I  was  bending  over  at  her  bedside  with 
my  ear  down  to  her  lips,  by  turns  listening  for 
her  breath  and  looking  for  a  sign  of  life  in  her 
face.  At  last  it  came  in  a  solemn  way — not  in 
a  flash  but  like  a  kind  of  pale  faint  light  brought 
very  slow  to  the  face. 

She  said  something  to  me  that  had  no  sonnd 
in  it,  but  I  saw  she  asked  me : 

"  Is  this  death  ?" 

And  I  says  "  Poor  dear  poor  dear,  I  think  it 
is." 

Knowing  somehow  that  she  wanted  me  to 
move  her  weak  right  hand,  I  took  it  and  laid  it 
on  her  breast  and  then  folded  her  other  hand 
upon  it,  and  she  prayed  a  good  good  prayer  and 
I  joined  in  it  poor  me  though  there  were  no 
words  spoke.  Then  I  brought  the  baby  in  its 
wrappers  from  where  it  lay,  and  I  says : 

"  5ly  dear  this  is  sent  to  a  childless  old  wo- 
man.    This  is  for  me  to  take  care  of." 

The  trembling  lip  was  put  up  towards  my  face 
for  the  last  time,  and  I  dearly  kissed  it. 

"  Yes  my  dear"  I  says.  "Please  God!  Me 
and  the  Major." 

I  don't  know  how  to  tell  it  right,  but  I  saw 
her  soul  brighten  and  leap  up,  and  get  free  and 

fly  awav  in  the  grateful  look. 

«      '       «  *  m  *  * 

So  this  is  the  why  and  wherefore  of  its  coming 

to  pass  my  dear  that  we  called  him  Jemmy,  be- 

j  ing  after  the  Major  his  own  godfather  with  Lir- 

riper  for  a  surname  being  after  myself,  and  never 

!  was  a  dear  child  such  a  brightening  thing  in  a 

I  Lodgings  or  such  a  playmate  to  his  grandmother 

as  Jemmy  to  this  house  and  me,  and  always 

good  and  minding  what  he  was  told  (upon  the 

j  whole)  and  soothing  for  the  temper  and  making 

j  everything  pleasanter  except  when  he  grew  old 

enough  to  drop  his  cap  down  Wozenham's  Airy 

I  and  they  wouldn't  hand  it  up  to  him,  and  b^ing 

j  worked  into  a  state  I  put  on  my  best  bonnet  and 

gloves  and  parasol  with  the  child  in  my  hand 

and  I  says  "Miss  Wozenhara  I  little  thought 

j  ever  to  have  entered  i^our  house  but  unless  my 


10 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


grandson's  cap  is  instantly  restored,  the  laws  of 
this  country  regulating  the  property  of  the  Sub- 
ject shsUl  at  length  decide  betwixt  yourself  and 
me,  cost  what  it  may."  With  a  sneer  upon  her 
face  which  did  strike  me  I  must  say  as  being  ex- 
pressive of  two  keys  but  it  may  have  been  a  mis- 
take and  if  there  is  any  doubt  let  Miss  AVozen- 
ham  have  the  full  benefit  of  it  as  is  but  right, 
she  rang  the  bell  and  she  says  "  Jane,  is  there  a 
street-child's  old  cap  down  our  Airy?"  I  says 
"  Miss  Wozenham  before  your  housemaid  an- 
swers that  question  you  must  allow  me  to  inform 
you  to  your  face  that  my  grandson  is  not  a  street- 
child  and  is  not  in  the  habit  of  wearing  old  caps. 
In  fact"  I  says  "  Miss  Wozenham  I  am  far  from 
sure  that  my  gran(^son's  cap  may  not  be  newer 
than  your  own"  which  was  perfectly  savage  in 
me,  her  lace  being  the  commonest  machine- 
make  washed  and  torn  besides,  but  I  had  been 
jmt  into  a  state  to  begin  with  fomented  by  im- 
pertinence. Miss  Wozenham  says  red  in  tlie 
hice  "Jane  you  heard  my  question,  is  there  any 
child's  cap  down  our  Airy  ?"'  "  Yes  Ma'am" 
says  Jane  "I  think  I  did  see  some  such  rubbish 
a  lying  there."  "Then"  says  Miss  Wozenham 
'  "let  these  visitors  out,  and  then  throw  up  that 
worthless  article  out  of  my  premises. "  But  here 
the  child  who  had  been  staring  at  Miss  Wozen- 
ham witji  all  his  eyes  and  more,  frowns  down 
his  little  eyebrows  purses  up  his  little  mouth  puts 
his  chubby  legs  far  apart  turns  his  little  dimpled 
fists  round  ^d  round  slwvly  over  one  another 
like  a  little  coffee-mill,  and  says  to  her  "Oo 
impdent  to  mi  Gran,  me  tut  oor  hi!"  "Oh!" 
says  Miss  Wozenham  looking  down  scornfully  at 
the  Mite  "this  is  not  a  street-child  is  it  not! 
Really!"  I  bursts  out  laughing  and  I  says 
"  Miss  Wozenham  if  this  an't  a  pretty  sight  to 
you  I  don't  envy  your  foelings  and  I  wish  you 
good  day.  Jemmy  come  along  with  Gran." 
And  I  was  still  in  the  best  of  humours  though 
his  cap  came  flying  up  into  the  street  as  if  it 
had  been  just  turned  on  out  of  the  water-plug, 
and  I  fteiit  home  laughing  all  the  way,  all  ow- 
ing to  that  dear  boy. 

The  miles  and  miles  that  me  and  the  Major 
have  travelled  with  Jemmy  in  the  dusk  between 
the  lights  are  not  to  be  calculated.  Jemmy  dj:^- 
ing  on  the  coach-box  which  is  the  Major's  bfas§- 
bound  writing-desk  on  the  table,  me  inside  in 
the  easy-chair  and  the  Major  Guard  up  behind 
with  a  brown-j)aper  horn  doing  it  really  won- 
derful. I  do  assure  you  my  dear  that  some- 
times when  I  have  taken  a  few  winks  in  my 
place  inside  the  coach  and  have  come  half  awake 
by  the  flashing  light  of  the  fire  and  have  heard 
that  precious  pet  driving  and  the  Major  blowing 
up  behind  to  have  the  change  of  horses  ready 
when  we  got  to  the  Inn,  I  have  half  believed  we 
were  on  the  old  North  Road  that  my  poor  Lir- 
riper  knew  so  well.  Then  to  see  that  child  and 
the  Major  both  wrapped  up  getting  down  to 
warm  their  feet  and  going  stamping  about  and 
having  glasses  of  ale  out  of  the  paper  match- 
boxes on  the  chimney-piece  is  to  see  the  Major 
enjoying  it  fully  as  much  as  the  child  I  am  very 
sure,  and  its  equal  to  any  play  when  Coachee 
opens  the  coach-door  to  look  in  at  me  inside 
and  say  "  Wery  'past  that  'tage. — 'Frightened 
old  lady?" 

But  what  my  inexpressible  feelings  were  when 
we  lost  that  child  can  only  be  compared  to  the 


[  Major's  which  were  not  a  shade  better,  through 
i  his  straying  out  at  five  years  old  and  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  forenoon  and  never  heard  of  by 
j  word  or  sign  or  deed  till  half-past  nine  at  night, 
I  when  the  Major  had  gone  to  the  Editor  of  the 
i  Times  newspaper  to  put  in  an  advertisement, 
which  came  out  next  day  four  and  twenty  hours 
after  he  was  found,  and  which  I  mean  always 
I  carefully  to  keep  in  my  lavender  drawer  as  the 
first  printed  account  of  him.  The  more  the  day 
got  on,  tiie  more  I  got  distracted  and  the  Major 
too  and  both  of  us  made  worse  by  the  comj  oseS 
ways  of  the  police  though  verj-  civil  and  obliging 
and  what  I  must  call  their  obstinacy  in  not  en- 
tertaining the  idea  that  he  was  stolen.  "We 
mostly  find  Mum"  says  the  sergeant  who  came 
round  to  comfort  me,  which  he  didn't  at  all  and 
he  had  been  one  of  the  private  constables  in 
Caroline's  time  to  which  he  referred  in  his  open- 
ing words  when  he  said  "Don't  give  way  to 
uneasiness  in  your  mind  Mum,  it'll  all  come  as 
right  as  my  nose  did  when  I  got  the  same  barked 
by  that  j'oung  woman  in  your  second  floor" — 
says  this  sergeant  "  we  mostly  find  Mum  as  peo- 
ple ain't  over  anxious  to  have  what  I  may  call 
second-hand  children.  You' /I  get  him  back 
Mum. "  "  O  but  my  dear  good  sir"  I  says  clasping 
my  hands  and  wringing  them  and  clasping  them 
again  "he  is  such  an  uncommon  child!"  "Yes 
Mum"  says  the  sergeant,  "we  mostly  find  that 
too  Mum.  The  question  is  what  his  clothes  were 
worth."  "  His  clothes"  I  says  "  were  not  worth 
much  sir  for  he.  had  only  got  his  playing-dress 

on,  but  the  dear  child  ! "     "All  right  Mum" 

says  the  sergeant.  "  You'll  get  him  back  Mum. 
And  even  if  he'd  had  his  best  clothes  on  it 
wouldn't  come  to  worse  than  his  being  found 
wrapped  up  in  a  cabbage-leaf,  a  shivering  in  a 
lane."  His  words  pierced  my  heart  like  dag- 
gers and  daggers,  and  me  and  the  Major  ran  in 
and  out  like  wild  things  all  day  long  till  the 
Major  returning  from  his  interview  with  the 
Editor  of  the  Times  at  night  rushes  into  my  lit- 
tle room  hysterical  and  squeezes  my  hand  and 
wipes  his  eyes  and  says  "Joy  joy — oflScer  in 
plain  clothes  came  up  on  the  steps  as  I  was  let- 
ting myself  in  —  compose  your  feelings  —  Jem- 
my's found."  Consequently  I  fainted  away  and 
when  I  came  to  embraced  the  legs  of  the  officer 
in  plain  clothes  who  seemed  to  be  taking  a  kind 
of  a  quiet  inventory  in  his  mind  of  the  property 
in  my  little  room  with  brown  whiskers,  and  I 
says  "Blessings  on  you  sir  where  is  the  Dar- 
ling!" and  he  says  "In  Kennington  Station 
House."  I  was  dropping  at  his  feet  Stone  at 
the  image  of  that  Innocence  in  cells  with  mur- 
derers when  he  adds  "He  followed  the  Mon- 
key." I  says  deeming  it  slang  language  "Oh 
sir  explain  for  a  loving  grandmother  what  Mon- 
key !"  He  says  "  him  in  the  spangled  cap  with 
the  strap  under  the  chin,  as  won't  keep  on — him 
as  sweeps  the  crossings  on  a  round  table  and 
don't  want  to  draw  his  sabre  more  than  he  can 
help. "  Then  I  understood  it  all  and  most  thank- 
fully thanked  him,  and  me  and  the  Major  and 
him  drove  over  to  Kennington  and  there  we 
found  our  boy  lying  quite  comfortable  before  a 
blazing  fire  having  sweetly  played  himself  to 
sleep  upon  a  small  accordion  nothing  like  so  big 
as  a  flat  iron  which  they  had  been  so  kind  as  to 
lend  him  for  the  purpose  and  which  it  a]>peared 
had  been  stopped  upon  a  very  young  person. 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


U 


My  dear  the  system  upon  which  the  Major 
commenced  and  as  I  may  say  perfected  Jem- 
my's learning  when  he  was  so  small  that  if  the 
dear  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  you  had 
to  look  under  it  instead  of  over  it  to  see  him 
with  his  mother's  own  bright  hair  in  beautiful 
curls,  is  a  thing  that  ought  to  be  known  to  the 
Throne  and  Lords  and  Commons  and  then  might 
obtain  some  promotion  for  the  Major  which  he 
well  deserves  and  would  be  none  the  worse  for 
(speaking  between  friends)  L.  S.  D.-ically. 
When  the  Major  first  undertook  his  learning  he 
says  to  me : 

"  I'm  going  Madam"  he  says  "  to  make  our 
child  a  Calculatin>^  Boy." 

"Major"  I  says,  "you  terrify  me  and  may  do 
the  pet  a  permanent  injury  you  would  never  for- 
give yourself. " 

"Madam,"  says  the  Major,  "next  to  my  re- 
gret that  when  I  had  my  boot-sponge  in  my 
hand,  I  didn't  choke  that  scoundrel  with  it — 
on  the  spot " 

"There!  For  Gracious  sake,"  I  interrupts, 
"let  his  conscience  find  him  without  sponges." 

" 1  say  next  to  that  regret,  Madam,"  says 

the  Major  "  would  be  the  regret  with  which  my 
breast,"  which  he  tapped,  "would  be  surcharged 
if  this  fine  mind  was  not  early  cultivated.  But 
mark  me  Madam,"  says  the  Major  holding  up 
his  forefinger  "cultivated  on  a  principle  that 
will  make  it  a  delight." 

"Major"  I  says  "I  will  be  candid  with  yon 
and  tell  you  openly  that  if  ever  I  find  the  dear 
child  fall  off  in  his  appetite  I  shall  know  it  is 
his  calculations  and  shall  put  a  stop  to  them  at 
two  minutes'  notice.  Or  if  I  find  them  mount- 
ing to  his  head''  I  says,  "or  striking  any  ways 
cold  to  his  stomach  or  leading  to  anything  ap- 
proaching flabbiness  in  his  legs,  the  result  will 
be  the  same,  but  Major  you  are  a  clever  man  and 
have  seen  much  and  you  love  the  child  and  are 
his  own  godfather,  and  if  you  feel  a  confidence 
in  trying  try." 

"  Spoken  Madam"  says  the  Major  "like Emma 
Lirriper.  All  I  have  to  ask  Madam,  is,  that  you 
will  leave  my  godson  and  myself  to  make  a  week 
or  two's  preparations  for  surprising  you,  and  that 
you  will  give  me  leave  to  have  up  and  down  any 
small  articles  not  actually  in  use  that  I  may  re- 
quire from  the  kitchen." 

"From  the  kitchen  Major?"  I  says  half  feel- 
ing as  if  he  had  a  mind  to  cook  the  child. 

"From  the  kitchen"  says  the  Major,  and 
smiles  and  swells,  and  at  the  same  time  looks 
taller. 

So  I  passed  my  word  and  the  Major  and  the 
dear  boy  were  shut  up  together  for  half  an  hour 
at  a  time  through  a  certain  while,  and  never 
could  I  hear  anything  going  on  betwixt  them 
but  talking  and  laughing  and  Jemmy  clapping 
his  hands  and  screaming  out  numbers,  so  I  says 
to  myself  "it  has  not  harmed  him  yet"  nor 
could  I  on  examining  the  dear  find  any  signs 
of  it  anywhere  about  him  which  was  lik*tvise  a 
great  relief.  At  last  one  day  Jemmy  brings  me 
a  card  in  joke  in  the  Major's  neat  writing  "The 
Mess".  Jemmy  Jackman"  for  we  had  given  him 
the  Major's  other  name  too  "request  the  hon- 
our of  Mrs.  Lirriper's  company  at  the  Jackman 
Institution  in  the  front  parlour  this  evening  at 
five,  military  time,  to  witness  a  few  slight  feats 
of  elementary  arithmetic."    And  if  you'll  be- 


lieve me  there  in  the  front  parlour  at  five  punc- 
tual to  the  moment  was  the  Major  behind  the 
Pembroke  table  with  both  leaves  up  and  a  lot 
of  things  from  the  kitchen  tidily  set  out  on  old 
newspajxjrs  spread  atop  of  it,  and  there  was  the 
Mite  stood  up  on  a  chair  with  his  rosy  cheeks 
flushing  and  his  eyes  sparkling  clusters  of  dia- 
monds. 

"  Now  Gran"'  says  he,  "oo  tit  down  and  don't 
oo  touch  ler  people" — for  he  saw  with  every  one 
of  those  diamonds  of  his  that  I  was  going  to  give 
him  a  squeeze. 

"  Very  well  sir"  I  says  "  I  am  obedient  in  this 
good  company  I  am  sure."  And  I  sits  down  in 
the  easy-chair  that  was  put  for  me,  shaking  my 
sides. 

But  picture  my  admiration  when  the  Major 
going  on  almost  as  quick  as  if  he  was  conjur- 
ing sets  out  all  the  articles  he  names,  and  says, 
"Three  saucepans,  an  Italian  iron,  a  hand-bell, 
a  toasting-fork,  a  nutmeg-grater,  four  pot-lids,  a 
spice-box,  two  egg-cups,  and  a  chopping-board 
— how  many?"  and  when  that  Mite  instantly 
cries  "  Tifteen,  tut  down  tive  and  carry  ler  'top- 
pin-board"  and  then  claps  his  hands  draws  up 
his  legs  and  dances  on  his  chair ! 

My  dear  with  the  same  astonishing  ease  and 
correctness  him  and  the  Major  added  up  the  ta- 
bles chairs  and  sofy,  the  picters  fender  and  fire- 
irons  their  own  selves  mo  and  the  cat  and  the 
eyes  in  Miss  Wozenham's  head,  and  whenever 
the  sum  was  done  Young  Roses  and  Diamonds 
claps  his  hands  and  draws  up  his  legs  and  dances 
on  his  chair. 

The  pride  of  the  Major!  ("flere'*  a  mind 
Ma'am !"  he  says  to  me  behind  his  hand.) 

Then  lie  says  aloud,  "We  now  come  to  the 
next  elementary  rule :  which  is  called " 

"Umtraction!"  cries  Jemmy. 

"Right"  says  the  Major.  "We  have  here  a 
toasting-fork,  a  potato  in  its  natural  state,  two 
pot-lids,  one  egg-cup,  a  wooden  spoon,  and  two 
skewers,  from  which  it  is  necessary  for  commer- 
cial purposes  to  subtract  a  sprat-gridiron,  a  small 
jjickle-jar,  two  lemons,  one  pepper-castor,  a  black- 
b3etle  -trap,  and  a  knob  of  the  dresser-drawer — 
what  remains?" 

"Toatin-fork !"  cries  Jemmy. 

"In  numbers  how  many?"  says  the  Major. 

"  One !"  cries  Jemmy. 

("//ere's  a  boy.  Ma'am?"  says  the  Major  to 
me, behind  his  hand.) 

Then  the  Major  goes  on  : 

"We  now  approach  the  next  elementary  rule : 
which  is  entitled " 

"  Tickleication !"  cries  Jemmy. 

"Correct"  says  the  Major. 

But  my  dear  to  relate  to  you  in  detail  the  way 
in  which  they  multiplied  fourteen  sticks  of  fire- 
wood by  two  bits  of  ginger  and  a  larding-needle, 
or  divided  pretty  well  everything  else  there  was 
on  the  table  by  the  heater  of  the  Italian  iron  and 
a  chamber  candlestick,  and  got  a  lemon  over, 
would  make  my  head  spin  round  and  round  and 
round  as  it  did  at  the  time.  So  I  says  "if 
you'll  excuse  my  addressing  the  chair  Professor 
Jackman  I  think  the  period  of  the  lecture  has 
now  arrived  when  it  becomes  necessary  that  I 
should  take  a  good  hug  of  this  young  scholar.'' 
Upon  which  Jemmy  calls  out  from  his  station  on 
the  chair  "Gran  oo  open  oor  arms  and  me'll 
make  a  'pring  into  'em."     So  I  opened  my  arms 


12 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


to  him  as  I  had  opened  my  sorrowful  lieart  when 
his  poor  young  mother  lay  a  dying,  and  he  had 
his  jump  and  we  had  a  good  long  hug  together 
and  the  Major  prouder  than  any  peacock  says 
to  mc  behind  his  hand,  "You  need  not  let  him 
know  it  Madam"  (which  I  certainly  need  not 
for  the  Major  was  quite  audible)  "but  he  is  a 
boy !" 

lu  this  way  Jemmy  grew  and  grew  and  went 
to  day-school  and  continued  under  the  Major 
too,  and  in  summer  we  were  as  happy  as  the 
days  were  long  and  in  winter  we  were  as  happy 
as  the  days  were  short  and  there  seemed  to  rest 
a  Blessing  on  the  Lodgings  for  they  as  good  as 
Let  themselves  and  would  have  done  it  if  there 
had  been  twice  the  accommodation,  when  sore 
and  hard  against  my  will  I  one  day  says  to  the 
Major 

"  Major  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  break 
to  you.     Our  boy  must  go  to  boarding-school.'' 

It  was  a  sad  sight  to  see  the  Major's  counte- 
nance drop,  and  I  pitied  the  good  soul  with  all 
my  heart. 

"  Yes  Major"  I  says  "  though  he  is  as  popular 
with  the  Lodgers  as  you  are  yourself  and  though 
he  is  to  you  and  me  what  only  you  and  me 
know,  still  it  is  in  the  course  of  things  and  Life 
is  made  of  partings  and  we  must  part  with  our 
Pet." 

Bold  as  I  spoke,  I  saw  two  MSjors  and  half 
a  dozen  fireplaces,  and  whfen  the  poor  Major  put 
one  of  his  neat  bright-varnished  l)oots  upon  the 
fender  and  his  elbow  on  his  knee  and  his  head 
upon  his  hand  and  rocked  himself  a  little  to  and 
fro,  I  was  dreadfully  cut  up. 

"But"saj's  I  clearing  my  throat  "you  have 
so  well  prepared  him  Major — he  has  had  such  a 
Tutor  in  you — that  he  will  have  none  of  the 
first  drudgery  to  go  through.  And  he  is  so 
clever  besides  that  he'll,  soon  make  his  way  to 
the  front  rank." 

"  He  is  a  boy"  says  the  Major — having  sniffed 
— "that  has  not  his  like  on  the  face  of  the 
earth," 

"True  as  yon  say  Major,  and  it  is  not  for  us 
merely  for  our  own  sakes  to  do  anything  to  keep 
him  back  from  being  a  credit  and  an  ornament 
wherever  he  goes  and  perhaps  even  rising  to  be 
a  great  man,  is  it  Major?  He  will  have  all  my 
little  savings  when  my  work  is  done  (being  all 
the  world  to  me)  and  we  must  try  to  make  him 
a  wise  man  and  a  good  man,  mustn't  we  Major  ?" 

"Madam"  says  the  Major  rising  "Jemmy 
Jackman  is  becoming  an  older  file  than  I  was 
aware  of,  and  you  put  him  to  shame.  You  are 
thoroughly  right  Madam.  You  are  simply  and 
undeniably  right. — And  if  you'll  excuse  me,  I'll 
take  a  walk." 

So  the  Major  being  gone  ont  and  Jemmy  be- 
ing at  home,  I  got  the  child  into  my  little  room 
here  and  I  stood  him  by  my  chair  and  I  took 
his  mother's  own  curls  in  my  hand  and  I  spoke 
to  him  loving  and  serious.  And  when  I  had 
reminded  the  darling  how  that  he  was  now  in 
his  tenth  year  and  when  I  had  said  to  him  about 
his  getting  on  in  life  pretty  much  what  I  had 
Baid  to  the  Major  I  broke  to  him  how  that  wc 
must  have  this  same  parting,  and  there  I  was 
forced  to  stop  for  there  I  saw  of  a  sudden  the 
well  remembered  lip  with  its  tremble,  and  it  so 
brought  back  th&t  time!  But  with  the  spirit 
that  was  in  him  ho  controlled  it  soon  and  he 


says  gravely  nodding  through  his  tears,  "I  un- 
derstand Gran — I  know  it  must  be.  Gran — go  on 
Gran,  don't  be  afraid  of  me.'"  And  when  I  had 
said  all  that  ever  I  could  think  of,  he  turned  his 
briglit  steady  face  to  mine  and  he  says  just  a 
little  broken  here  and  there  "You  shall  see 
Gran  that  I  can  be  a  man  and  that  I  can  do 
anything  that  is  grateful  and  loving  to  yon — 
and  if  I  don't  grow  up  to  be  what  you  would 
like  to  have  me — I  hope  it  will  be — because  I 
shall  die."  And  with  that  he  sat  down  by  me 
and  I  went  on  to  tell  him  of  the  school  of  which 
I  had  excellent  recommendations  and  where  it 
was  and  how  many  scholars  and  what  games 
they  played  as  I  had  heard  and  wliat  length  of 
holidays,  to  all  of  which  he  listened  bright  and 
clear.  And  so  it  came  that  at  last  he  says 
"And  now  dear  Gran  let  me  kneel  down  here 
where  I  have  been  used  to  say  my  prayers  and 
let  me  fold  my  face  for  just  a  minute  in  your 
gown  and  let  mo  cry,  for  you  have  been  more 
than  father — more  than  mother — more  than 
brothers  sisters  friends — to  me !"  And  so  he 
did  cry  and  I  too  and  we  were  both  much  the 
better  for  it. 

From  that  time  forth  he  was  true  to  his  word 
and  ever  blithe  and  ready,  and  even  when  me 
and  the  Major  took  him  down  into  Lincolnshire 
he  was  far  the  gayest  of  the  y)arty  though  for 
sure  and  certain  he  might  easily  have  been  that, 
but  he  really  was  and  put  life  into  us  only  when 
it  came  to  the  last  Good-by,  he  says  with  a  wist- 
ful look  "You  wouldn't  have  me  not  really  sor- 
ry would  you  Gran?"  and  when  I  says  "No 
dear.  Lord  forbid  !"  he  says  "  I  am  glad  of  that !" 
and  ran  in  out  of  sight. 

But  now  that  the  child  was  gone  out  of  the 
Lodgings  the  Major  fell  into  a  regularly  mojang 
state.  It  was  taken  notice  of  by  all  the  Lodgere 
that  the  Major  moped.  He  hadn't  even  the 
same  air  of  being  rather  tall  that  he  used  to 
have,  and  if  he  varnished  his  boots  with  a  single 
gleam  of  interest  it  was  as  much  as  he  did. 

One  evening  the  Major  came  into  my  little 
room  to  take  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  morsel  of  but- 
tered toast  and  to  read  Jemmy's  newest  letter 
which  had  arrived  that  afternoon  (by  the  very 
same  postman  more  than  middle-aged  upon  the 
Beat  now),  and  the  letter  raising  him  up  a  littla 
I  says  to  the  Major : 

"  Major  you  mustn't  get  into  a  moping  way." 

The  Major  shook  his  head.  "Jemmy  Jack- 
man  Madam,"  he  says  with  a  deep  sigh,  "is  an 
older  file  than  I  thought  him." 

"Moping  is  not  the  way  to  grow  younger 
Major." 

"My  dear  Madam,"  says  the  Major,  "is 
there  any  way  of  growing  younger  ?" 

Feeling  that  the  Major  was  getting  rather 
the  best  of  that  point  I  made  a  diversion  to  an- 
other. 

"Thirteen  years!  Thir-teen  years!  Many 
Lodgers  have  come  and  gone,  in  the  thirteen 
years  that  you  have  lived  in  the  parlours  Major." 

"Hah!"  says  the  Major  warming.  "Many 
Madam,  many." 

"And  I  should  say  you  have  been  familiar 
with  them  all?" 

"As  a  rule  (with  its  exception  like  all  rules) 
my  dear  Madam"  says  the'  Major,  "  they  have 
honoured  me  with  their  acquaintance,  and  not 
itnfrequently  with  their  confidence." 


AIRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


13 


Watching  the  Major  as  he  drooped  his  white 
head  and  stroked  his  black  moustachios  and 
moped  again,  a  thought  which  I  think  njast 
have  been  going  about  looking  for  an  owner 
somewhere  dropped  into  my  old  noddle  if  you 
will  excuse  the  expression. 

"The  walls  of  my  Lodgings"  I  says  in  a 
casual  way — for  my  dear  it  is  of  no  use  going 
straight  at  a  man  who  mopes — "might  have 
something  to  tell,  if  they  could  tell  it." 

The  Major  neither  moved  nor  said  anything 
but  I  saw  he  was  attending  with  his  shoulders 
my  dear — attending  with  his  shoulders  to  wfcat 
I  said.  In  fact  I  saw  that  his  shoulders  were 
struck  by  it. 

"The  dear  boy  was  always  fond  of  story- 
books" I  went  on,  like  as  if  I  was  talking  to  my- 
self. "I  am  sure  this  house — his  own  home — 
might  write  a  story  or  two  for  his  reading  one 
day  or  another." 

The  Major's  shoulders  gave  a  dip  and  a  curve 
and  his  head  came  up  in  his  shirt-collar.  The 
Major's  head  came  up  in  his  shirt-collar  as  I 
hadn't  seen  it  come  up  since  Jemmy  went  to 
school. 

"It  is  nnqnestionable  that  in  interrals  of 
cribbage  and  a  friendly  rubber,  my  dear  Mad- 
am," says  the  Major,  "and  also  over  what  used 
to  be  called  in  my  young  times — in  the  salad 
days  of  Jemmy  Jacknian — the  social  glass,  I 
have  exchanged  many  a  reminiscence  with  your 
Lodgers." 

My  remark  was — I  confess  I  made  it  with  the 
deepest  and  artfullest  of  intentions — "I  wish 
our  dear  boy  had  heard  them  !" 

"Are  you  serious  Madam?"  asks  the  Major 
starting  and  turning  full  round. 

"Why  not  Major?" 

"Madam"  says  the  Major,  turning  up  one  of 
his  cuffs,  "they  shall  be  written  for  him." 

"  Ah !  Now  you  speak"  I  says  giving  my 
hands  a  pleased  clap.  "Now  you  are  in  a  way 
out  of  moping  Major." 

"Between  this  and  my  holidays — I  mean  the 
dear  boy's"  says  the  Major  turning  up  his  other 
cuff,  "a  good  deal  may  be  done  towards  it." 

"Major  you  are  a  clever  man  and  you  have 
seen  much  and  not  a  doubt  of  it." 

"I'll  begin,"  says  the  Major  looking  as  tall 
as  ever  he  did,  "to-morrow." 

My  dear  the  Major  was  another  man  in  three 
days  and  he  was  himself  again  in  a  week  and  he 
wrote  and  wrote  and  wrote  with  his  pen  scratch- 
ing like  rats  behind  the  wainscot,  and  whether 
he  had  many  grounds  to  go  upon  or  whether  he 
did  at  all  romance  I  cannot  tell  you,  but  what 
he  has  written  is  in  the  left-hand  glass  closet  of 
th3  little  bookcase  close  behind  you,  and  if  you'll 
put  your  hand  in  you'll  find  it  come  out  heavy 
in  lumps  sewn  together  and  being  beautifully 
plain  and  unknown  Greek  and  Hebrew  to  my- 
self and  me  quite  wakeful,  I  shall  take  it  as  a 
favour  if  you'll  read  out  loud  and  read  on. 


11. 

HOW   THE   FIRST  FLOOR   WENT   TO  CROWLEY 
CASTLE. 

I  HAVE  come  back   to  London,  Major,  pos- 
sessed by  a  family-story  that  I  have  picked  up 


in  the  country.  While  I  was  out  of  town,  I 
visited  the  ruins  of  the  great  old  Norman  castle 
of  Sir  Mark  Crowley,  the  last  baronet  of  his 
name,  who  had  been  dead  nearly  a  hundred 
years,  I  stayed  in  the  village  near  the  castle, 
and  thence  I  bring  back  some  of  the  particulars 
of  the  tale  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  derived  from 
old  inhabitants  who  heard  them  from  their  fa- 
thers ; — no  longer  ago. 

We  drove  from  our  little  sea-bathing  place, 
in  Sussex,  to  see  the  massive  ruins  of  Crowley 
Castle,  which  is  the  show-excursion  of  Merton. 
We  had  to  alight  at  a  field  gate ;  the  road  fur- 
ther on  being  too  bad  for  the  slightly-built  car- 
riage, or  the  poor  tired  Merton  horse ;  and  we 
walked  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  through 
uneven  ground,  which  had  once  been  an  Italian 
garden ;  and  then  we  came  to  a  bridge  over  a 
dry  moat,  and  went  over  the  groove  of  a  port- 
cullis that  had  once  closed  the  massive  entrance, 
into  an  empty  space  surrounded  by  thick  walls, 
draperied  with  ivy,  unroofed,  and  open  to  the 
sky.  We  could  judge  of  the  beautiful  tracery 
that  had  been  in  the  windows,  by  the  remains 
of  the  stonework  here  and  there ;  and  an  old 
man — "ever  so  old,"  he  called  himself  when 
we  inquired  his  exact  age — who  scrambled  and 
stumbled  out  of  some  lair  in  the  least  devas- 
tated part  of  the  ruins  at  our  approach,  and  who 
established  himself  as  our  guide,  showed  us  a 
scrap  of  glass  yet  lingering  in  what  was  the 
window  of  the  great  drawing-room  not  above 
seventy  years  ago.  After  he  had  done  his  duty, 
he  hobbled  with  us  to  the  neighbouring  church, 
whei^  the  knightly  Crowleys  lie  buried :  some 
commemorated  by  ancient  brasses,  some  by  al- 
tar-tombs, some  by  fine  Latin  epitaphs,  bestow- 
ing upon  them  every  virtue  under  the  sun.  He 
had  to  take  the  church-key  back  to  the  adjoin- 
ing parsonage  at  the  entrance  of  the  long  strag-* 
gling  street  which  forms  the  village  of  Crowley. 
The  castle  and  the  church  were  on  the  summit 
of  a  hill,  from  which  we  could  see  the  distant 
line  of  sea  beyond  the  misty  marshes.  The  vil- 
lage fell  away  from  the  church  and  parsonage, 
down  the  hill.  The  aspect  of  the  place  was 
little,  if  at  all,  changed  from  its  aspect  in  the 
year  1772. 

But  I  mnst  begin  a  little  earlier.  From  one 
of  the  Latin  epitaphs  I  learnt  that  Amelia  Lady 
Crowley  died  in  1756,  deeply  regretted  by  her 
loving  husband.  Sir  Mark.  He  never  married 
again,  though  his  wife  had  left  him  no  heir  to 
his  name  or  his  estate — only  a  little  tiny  girl — 
Theresa  Crowley.  This  child  would  inherit  her 
mother's  fortune,  and  all  that  Sir  Mark  was  free 
to  leave ;  but  this  little  was  not  much  ;  the  cas- 
tle and  all  the  lands  going  to  his  sister's  son, 
Marmaduke,  or  as  he  was  usually  called  Duke, 
Brownlow.  Duke's  parents  were  dead,  and  his 
uncle  was  his  guardian,  and  his  guardian's  house 
was  his  home.  The  lad  was  some  seven  or  eight 
years  older  than  his  cousin ;  and  probably  Sir 
Mark  thought  it  not  unlikely  that  his  daughter 
and  his  heir  might  make  a  match.  Theresa's 
mother  had  had  some  foreign  blood  in  her,  and 
had  been  brought  up  in  Franco — not  so  fiu  away 
but  that  its  shores  might  be  seen  by  any  one 
who  chose  to  take  an  easy  day's  ride  from  Crow- 
ley Castle  for  the  purpose. 

Lady  Crowley  had  been  a  delicate  elegant 
creature,  but  no  great  beauty,  judging  from  all 


14 


MRS.  LIRRIPERS  LODGINGS. 


acconnts;  Sir  Mark's  family  were  famous  for 
their  good  looks ;  Theresa,  au  unusually  lucky 
child,  inherited  the  outward  graces  of  both  her 
parents.  A  portrait  which  I  saw  of  her,  de- 
graded to  a  station  over  the  parlor  chimney- 
piece  in  the  village  inn,  showed  me  black  hair, 
soft  yet  arch  grey  eyes  with  brows  and  lashes 
of  the  same  tint  as  her  hair,  a  full  pretty  passion- 
ate mouth,  and  a  round  slender  throat.  She 
was  a  wilful  little  creature,  and  her  father's  in- 
dulgence made  her  more  wayward.  She  had  a 
nurse,  too,  a  French  bonne,  whose  mother  had 
been  about  my  lady  from  her  youth,  who  had 
followed  my  lady  to  England,  and  who  had  died 
there.  Victorine  had  been  in  attendance  on  the 
young  Theresa  from  her  earliest  infancy,  and  al- 
most took  the  place  of  a  parent  in  power  and  af- 
fection— in  power,  as  to  ordering  and  arranging 
almost  what  she  liked,  concerning  the  child's 
management — in  love,  because  they  speak  to  this 
day  of  the  black  year  when  virulent  small-pox 
was  rife  in  Crowley,  and  when.  Sir  Mark  being 
far  away  on  some  diplomatic  mission — in  Vien- 
na, I  fancy — Victorine  shut  herself  up  with  Miss 
Theresa  when  the  child  was  taken  ill  with  the 
disease,  and  nursed  her  night  and  day.  She  only 
succumbed  to  the  dreadful  illness  when  all  dan- 
ger to  the  child  was  over.  Theresa  came  out  of 
it  with  unblemished  beauty  ;  Victorine  barely 
escaped  with  life,  and  was  disfignred  for  life. 

This  disfigurement  put  a  stop  to  much  un- 
founded scandal  which  had  been  afloat  respect- 
ing the  French  servant's  great  influence  over 
Sir  Mark.  He  was,  in  fact,  an  easy  and  indo- 
lent man,  rarely  excited  to  any  vehemence  of 
emotion,  and  who  felt  it  to  be  a  point  of  honour 
to  carry  out  his  dead  wife's  wish  that  Victorine 
should  never  leave  Theresa,  and  that  the  man- 
agement of  the  child  should  be  confided  to  her. 
Only  once  had  there  been  a  struggle  for  power 
between  Sir  Mark  and  the  bonne,  and  then  she 
had  won  the  victory.  And  no  wonder,  if  the 
old  butler's  account  were  true ;  for  he  had  pone 
into  the  room  unawares,  and  had  found  Sir  Mark 
and  Victorine  at  high  words;  and  he  said  that 
Victorine  was  white  with  rage,  that  her  eyes 
were  blazing  with  passionate  fire,  that  her  voice 
was  low  and  her  words  were  few,  but  that,  al- 
though she  spoke  in  French,  and  he  the  butler 
only  knew  his  native  English,  he  would  rather 
have  been  sworn  at  by  a  drunken  grenadier  with 
a  sword  in  his  hand,  than  ha%'e  had  those  words 
of  Victorine's  addressed  to  him. 

Even  the  choice  of  Theresa's  masters  was  left 
to  Victorine.  A  little  reference  was  occasional- 
ly made  to  Madam  Hawtrey,  the  parson's  wife, 
and  a  distant  relation  of  Sir  Mark's,  but,  seeing 
that,  if  Victorine  chose  so  to  order  it,  Madam 
Hawtrey's  own  little  daughter  Bessy  would  have 
been  deprived  of  the  advantages  resulting  from 
gratuitous  companionship  in  all  Theresa's  les- 
sons, she  was  careful  how  she  opposed  or  made 
an  enemy  of  Mademoiselle  Victorine.  Bessy 
was  a  gentle  quiet  child,  and  grew  up  to  be  a 
sensible  sweet-tempered  girl,  with  a  very  fair 
share  of  English  beauty ;  fresh  complexion, 
brown-eyed  round-faced,  with  a  stiff  though  well- 
made  figure,  as  different  as  j)Ossible  from  There- 
sa's slight  lithe  graceful  form.  Duke  was  a 
young  man  to  these  two  maidens,  while  they  to 
him  were  little  more  than  children.  Of  course 
he  admired  his  cousin  Theresa  th".  n'r.'''- — ''■^'o 


would  not  ?  —  but  he  was  establishing  his  first 
principles  of  morality  for  himself,  and  her  con- 
duct towards  Bessy  sometimes  jarred  against  his 
ideas  of  right.  One  day,  after  she  had  been  ty- 
rannising over  the  self-contained  and  patient 
Bessy  so  as  to  make  the  latter  crj' — and  both  the 
amount  of  the  tyranny  and  the  crying  were  un- 
usual circumstances,  for  Theresa  was  of  a  gener- 
ous nature  when  not  put  out  of  the  way — Duke 
spoke  to  his  cousin  : 

"Theresa!  you  had  no  right  to  blame  Bessy 
as  you  did.  It  was  as  much  your  fault  as  hers. 
Yoti  were  as  much  bound  to  remember  Mr. 
Dawson's  directions  about  the  sums  you  were  to 
do  for  him,  as  she  was." 

The  girl  opened  her  great  grey  eyes  in  sur- 
prise.    She  to  blame ! 

"  What  does  Bessy  come  to  the  castle  for,  I 
wonder?  They  pay  nothing — we  pay  all.  The 
least  she  can  do  is  to  remember  for  me  what  we 
are  told.  I  shan't  trouble  myself  with  attend- 
ing to  Mr.  Dawson's  directions ;  and  if  Bessy 
does  not  like  to  do  so,  she  can  stay  away.  She 
already  knows  enough  to  earn  her  bread  as  a 
maid :  which  I  suppose  is  what  she'll  have  to 
come  to." 

The  moment  Theresa  had  said  this,  she  could 
have  bitten  her  tongue  out  for  the  meanness  and 
rancour  of  the  speech.  She  saw  pain  and  disap- 
pointment clearly  expressed  on  Duke's  face  ; 
and,  in  another  moment,  her  impulses  would  have 
carried  her  to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  she 
would  have  spoken  out  her  self-reproach.  But 
Duke  thought  it  his  duty  to  remonstrate  with 
her,  and  to  read  her  a  homily,  which,  however 
true  and  just,  weakened  the  effect  of  the  look  of 
distress  on  his  face.  Her  wits  were  called  into 
play  to  refute  his  arguments ;  her  head  rather 
than  her  heart  took  the  prominent  part  in  the 
controversy  ;  and  it  ended  unsatisfactorily  to 
both  ;  he,  going  away  with  dismal  though  un- 
spoken prognostics  touching  what  she  would  be- 
come as  a  woman  if  she  were  so  supercilious 
and  unfeeling  as  a  girl ;  she,  the  moment  his 
back  was  turned,  throwing  herself  on  the  floor 
and  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Vic- 
torine heard  her  darling's  passionate  sobs,  and 
came  in. 

"  What  hast  thou,  my  angel  ?  Who  has  been 
vexing  thee, — tell  me,  my  cherished?" 

She  tried  to  raise  the  girl,  but  Theresa  would 
not  be  raised ;  neither  wpuld  she  speak  till  she 
chose,  in  spite  of  Victorine's  entreaties.  When 
she  chose,  she  lifted  herSelf  up,  still  sitting  on 
the  floor,  and  putting  het  tangled  hair  off  her 
flushed  tear-stained  face,  said  : 

"Never  mind,  it  was  only  something  Duke 
said;  I  don't  care  for  it  now."  And  refusing 
Victorine's  aid,  she  got  up,  and  stood  thought- 
fully looking  out  of  window. 

"  That  Duke !"  exclaimed  Victorine.  "  WTiat 
business  has  that  Mr.  Duke  to  go  vex  my  dar- 
ling? He  is  not  your  husband  yet,  that  he 
should  scold  you,  or  that  you  should  mind  what 
he  says." 

Theresa  listened  and  gained  a  new  idea  ;  but 
she  gave  no  outward  sign  of  attention,  or  of  her 
now  hearing  for  the  first  time  how  that  she  was 
supposed  to  be  intended  for  her  cousin's  wife. 
She  made  no  reply  to  Victorine's  caresses  and 
speeches;  one  might  almost  say  she  shook  her 
off.    As  soon  as  she  was  lRft,t<^.ho.i:9<^jfj  she  took 


MRS.  LIHIUl'EU'S  LODGINGS. 


15 


her  hat,  and  going  out  alone,  as  she  was  wont, 
in  the  pleasure-grounds,  she  went  down  the  ter- 
race steps,  crossed  the  bowling-green,  and  open- 
ed a  Uttle  wicket-gate  which  led  into  the  garden 
of  the  parsonage.  There,  were  Bessy  and  her 
mother,  gathering  fruit.  It  was  Bessy  whom 
Theresa  sought;  for  there  was  something  in 
Madam  Hawtrey's  silky  manner  that  was  al- 
ways rather  repugnant  to  her.  However,  she 
was  not  going  to  shrink  from  her  resolution 
because  Madam  Hawtrey  was  there.  So  she 
went  up  to  the  startled  Bessy,  and  said  to  her, 
as  if  she  were  reciting  a  prepared  speech :  "Bes- 
sy, I  behaved  very  crossly  to  you  ;  I  had  no  bus- 
iness to  have  spoken  to  you  as  I  did." — "Will 
you  forgive  me?"  was  the  pro-determined  end 
of  this  confession ;  but  somehow,  when  it  came 
to  that,  she  could  not  say  it  with  Madam  Haw- 
trey standing  by,  ready  to  smile  and  to  courtsey 
as  soon  as  she  could  catch  Theresa's  eye.  There 
was  no  need  to  ask  forgiveness  though;  for 
-Bessy  had  put  down  her  half-filled  basket,  and 
came  softly  up  to  Theresa,  stealing  her  brown 
soiled-stained  little  hand  into  the  young  lady's 
soft  wiiite  one,  and  looking  up  at  her  with  lov- 
ing brown  eyes. 

"I  am  so  sorry,  but  I  think  it  was  the  sums 
on  page  108.  I  have  been  looking  and  looking, 
and  I  am  almost  sure." 

Her  exculpatory  tone  caught  her  mother's  ear, 
although  her  words  did  not. 

"I  am  sure.  Miss  Theresa,  Bessy  is  so  grate- 
ful for  the  piivileges  of  learning  with  you !  It 
is  such  an  advantage  to  her !  I  often  tell  her, 
'  Take  pattern  by  Miss  Theresa,  and  do  as  she 
does,  and  try  and  speak  as  she  does,  and  there'll 
not  be  a  parson's  daughter  in  all  Sussex  to  com- 
pare with  you.'     Don't  I,  Bessy  ?" 

Theresa  shrugged  her  shoulders — a  trick  she 
had  caught  from  Victorine — and,  turning  to  Bes- 
sy, asked  her  what  she  was  going  to  do  with 
those  gooseberries  she  was  gathering?  And  as 
Theresa  spoke,  she  lazily  picked  the  ripest  out 
of  the  basket,  and  ate  them. 

"They  are  for  a  pudding,"  said  Bessy.  "  As 
soon  as  we  have  gathered  enough,  I  am  going  in 
to  make  it." 

"I'll  come  and  help  you,"  said  Theresa,  ea- 
gerly. "I  should  so  like  to  make  a  pudding. 
Our  Monsieur  Antoine  never  makes  gooseberry 
puddings." 

Duke  came  past  the  parsonage  an  hour  or  so 
afterwards :  and,  looking  in  by  chance  through 
the  open  casement  windows  of  the  kitchen,  saw 
Theresa  pinned  up  in  a  bib  and  apron,  her  arms 
all  over  flour,  flourishing  a  rolling-pin,  and  laugh- 
ing and  chattering  with  Bessy  similarly  attired. 
Duke  had  spent  his  morning  ostensibly  in  fish- 
ing, but  in  reality  in  weighing  in  his  own  mind 
what  he  could  do  or  say  to  soften  the  obdurate 
heart  of  his  cousin.  And  here  it  was,  all  inex- 
plicably right,  as  if  by  some  enchanter's  wand ! 

The  only  conclusion  Duke  could  come  to  was 
the  same  that  many  a  wise  (and  foolish)  man 
had  come  to  before  his  day : 

"Well!  Women  are  past  my  comprehen- 
sion, that's  all!" 

When  all  this  took  place,  Theresa  was  about 
fifteen;  Bcs.sy  was  perhaps  six  months  older; 
Duke  was  just  leaving  Oxford.  His  uncle.  Sir 
Mark,  was  excessively  fond  of  him ;  yes  I  and 
proud,  too,  for  he  had  distinguislicd  himself  at 


college,  and  every  one  spoke  well  of  him.  And 
he,  for  his  part,  loved  Sir  Mark,  and,  unspoiled 
by  the  fame  and  reputation  he  had  gained  at 
Christ  Church,  paid  respectful  deference  to  Sir 
Mark's  opinions. 

As  Theresa  grew  older,  her  father  supjjosed 
that  he  played  his  cards  well  in  singing  Duke's 
praises  on  every  possible  occasion.  [She  tossed 
her  head,  and  said  nothing.  Thanks  to  Victo- 
rine's  revelations,  she  understood  the  tendency 
of  her  father's  speeches.  She  intended  to  make 
her  own  choice  of  a  husband  when  the  time 
came ;  and  it  might  be  Duke,  or  it  might  be 
some  one  else.  When  Duke  did  not  lecture  or 
prose,  but  was  sitting  his  horse  so  splendidly  at 
the  meet,  before  the  huntsman  gave  the  blast, 
"Found;"  when  Duke  was  holding  his  own  in 
discourse  with  other  men ;  when  Duke  gave  her 
a  short  sharp  word  of  command  on  any  occa- 
sion ;  then  she  decided  that  she  would  marry 
him,  and  no  one  else.  But  when  he  found  fault, 
or  stumbled  about  awkwardly  in  a  minuet,  or 
talked  moralities  against  duelling,  then  she  was 
sure  that  Duke  should  never  be  her  husband. 
She  wondered  if  he  knew  about  it ;  if  any  one 
had  told  him,  as  Victorine  had  told  her;  if  her 
father  had  revealed  his  thoughts  and  wishes  to 
his  nephew,  as  plainly  as  he  had  done  to  bis 
daughter?  This  last  query  made  her  cheeks 
burn ;  and,  on  the  days  when  the  suspicion  had 
been  brought  by  any  chance  prominently  before 
her  mind,  she  was  especially  rude  and  disagree- 
able to  Duke. 

He  was  to  go  abroad  on  the  grand  tour  of 
Europe,  to  which  young  men  of  fortune  usually 
devoted  three  years.  He  was  to  have  a  tutor, 
because  all  young  men  of  his  rank  had  tutors ; 
else  he  was  quite  wise  enough,  and  steady 
enough,  to  have  done  without  one,  and  proba- 
bly knew  a  good  deal  mote  about  what  was  best 
to  be  observed  in  the  countries  they  were  going 
to  visit,  than  Mr.  Roberts,  his  appointed  bear- 
leader. He  was  to  come  back  full  of  historical 
and  political  knowledge,  speaking  French  and 
Italian  like  a  native,  and  having  a  smattering 
of  barbarous  German,  and  he  was  to  enter  the 
House  as  a  county  member,  if  possible — as  a 
borough  member  at  the  worst ;  and  was  to  make 
a  great  success ;  and  then,  as  every  one  under- 
stood, he  was  to  marry  his  cousin  Theresa. 

He  spoke  to  her  father  about  it,  before  start- 
ing on  his  travels.  It  was  after  dinner  in  Crow- 
ley  Castle.  Sir  Mark  and  Duke  sat  alone,  each 
pensive  at  the  thought  of  the  coming  parting. 

"Theresa  is  but  young,"  said  Duke,  breaking 
into  speech  after  a  long  silence,  "but  if  you 
have  no  objection,  uncle,  I  should  like  to  speak 
to  her  before  I  leave  England,  about  my — my 
hopes." 

Sir  Mark  played  with  his  glass,  poured  out 
some  more  wine,  drank  it  ofif  at  a  draught,  and 
then  replied": 

"No,  Duke,  no.  Leave  her  in  peace  with 
me.  I  have  looked  forward  to  having  her  for 
my  companion  through  these  three  years;  they'll 
soon  pass  away"  (to  age,  but  not  to  youth), 
"and  I  should  like  to  have  her  undivided  heart 
till  you  come  back.  No,  Duke!  Three  years 
will  soon  pass  away,  and  then  we'll  have  a  royal 
wedding." 

Duke  sighed,  but  said  no  more.  The  next 
dav  was  the  last.    He  wanted  Theresa  to  "jo  with 


1^ 


MRS.  LIRmPER'S  LODGINGS. 


liim  to  take  leave  of  the  Hawtreys  at  the  Par-  | 
sonage,  and  of  the  villagers;  but  she  was  wilful,  I 
and  would  not.  He  remembered,  years  after- 
wards, how  Bessy's  gentle  peaceful  manner  had 
struck  him  as  contrasted  with  Theresa's,  on  that 
last  day.  Both  girls  regretted  his  departure. 
He  had* been  so  uniformly  gentle  and  thoughtful 
in  his  behaviour  to  Bessy,  that,  without  any  idea 
of  love,  she  felt  him  to  be  her  pattern  of  noble 
chivalrous  manhood ;  the  only  person,  except 
her  father,  who  was  steadily  kind  to  her.  She 
admired  his  sentiments,  she  esteemed  his  princi- 
ples, she  considered  his  long  evolvement  of  his 
ideas  as  the  truest  eloquence.  He  had  lent  her 
books,  he  had  directed  her  studies ;  all  the  ad- 
vice and  information  which  Theresa  had  re- 
jected had  fallen  to  Bessy's  lot,  and  she  had  re- 
ceived it  thankfully. 

Theresa  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears  as  soon 
as  Duke  and  his  suite  were  out  of  sight.  She 
had  refused  the  farewell  kiss  her  father  had 
told  her  to  give  him,  but  had  waved  her  white 
handkerchief  out  of  the  great  drawing-room 
wmdow  (that  very  window  in  which  the  old 
guide  showed  me  the  small  piece  of  glass  still 
lingering).  But  Duke  had  ridden  away  with 
slack  rein  and  downcast  head,  without  looking 
back.  *" 

His  absence  was  a  great  blank  in  Sir  Mark's 
life.  He  had  never  sought  London  much  as  a 
place  of  residence ;  in  former  days  he  had  been 
suspected  of  favouring  the  Stuarts ;  but  nothing 
could  be  proved  against  him,  and  he  had  sub- 
sided into  a  very  tolerably  faithful  subject  of 
King  George  the  Third.  Still,  a  cold  shoulder 
having  been  turned  to  him  by  the  court  party 
at  one  time,  he  had  become  prepossessed  against 
the  English  capital.  On  the  contrary,  his  wife's 
predilections  and  his  own  tendencies  had  always 
made  Paris  a  very  agreeable  place  of  residence 
to  him.  To  Paris  he  at  length  resorted  again, 
when  the  blank  in  his  life  oppressed  him ;  and 
from  Paris,  about  two  years  after  Duke's  de- 
parture, he  returned  after  a  short  absence  from 
home,  and  suddenly  announced  to  his  daughter 
and  the  household  that  he  had  taken  an  apart- 
ment in  the  Rue  Louis  le  Grand  for  the  coming 
winter,  to  which  there  was  to  be  an  immediate 
removal  of  his  daughter,  Victorine,  and  certain 
other  personal  attendants  and  sen'ants. 

Nothing  could  exceed  Theresa's  mad  joy  at 
this  unexpected  news.  She  sprang  upon  her 
father's  neck,  and  kissed  him  till  she  was  tired 
— whatever  he  was.  She  ran  to  Victorine,  and 
told  her  to  guess  what  "  heavenly  bliss"  was  go- 
ing to  befal  them,  dancing  roupd  the  middle- 
aged  woman  until  she,  in  her  spoilt  impatience, 
was  becoming  angry,  when,  kissing  her,  she  told 
her,  and  ran  off  to  the  Parsonage,  and  thence 
to  the  church,  bursting  in  upon  morning  prayers 
— for  it  was  AH  Saints'  Day,  although  she  had 
forgotten  it — and  filliping  a  scrap*  of  paper  on 
which  she  had  hastily  written,  "We  are  going 
to  Paris  for  the  winter — all  of  us,"  rolled  into  a 
ball,  from  the  castle  pew  to  that  of  the  parson. 
She  saw  Bessy  redden  as  she  caught  it,  put  it 
into  her  pocket  unread,  and,  after  an  apologetic 
glance  at  the  curtained  seat  in  which  Theresa 
was,  go  on  with  her  meek  responses.  Theresa 
went  out  by  the  private  door  in  a  momentary  fit 
of  passion.  "Stupid  cold-blooded  creature!" 
she  said  to  herself.     But  that  afternoon  Bessy 


came  to  the  castle,  so  sony — and  so  losing  her 
own  sorrow  in  sympathy  with  her  friend's  glad- 
ness, that  Theresa  took  her  into  favour  again. 
The  girls  parted  with  promises  of  correspond- 
ence, and  with  some  regret :  the  greatest  on 
Bessy's  side.  Some  grand  promises  of  Paris 
fashion,  and  presents  of  dress,  Theresa  made  in 
her  patronising  way ;  but  Bessy  did  not  seem  to 
care  much  for  them — which  was  fortunate,  for 
they  were  never  fulfilled. 

Sir  Mark  had  an  idea  in  his  head  of  perfect- 
ing Theresa's  accomplishments  and  manners  by 
Parisian  masters  and  Parisian  society.  English 
residents  in  Venice,  Florence,  Rome,  wrote  to 
their  friends  at  home  about  Duke.  They  spoke 
of  him  as  of  what  we  should,  at  the  present  day, 
call  a  "rising  young  man."  His  praises  ran  so 
high,  that  Sir  Mark  began  to  fear  lest  his  hand- 
some nephew,  feted  by  princes,  courted  by  am- 
bassadors, made  love  to  by  lovely  Italian  ladies, 
might  find  Theresa  too  country-bred  for  his 
taste. 

Thus  had  come  about,  the  engaging  of  the 
splendid  apartment  in  the  Rue  Louis  le  Grand. 
The  street  itself  is  narrow,  and  now-a-days  we 
are  apt  to  think  the  situation  close  ;  but  in  those 
days  it  was  the  height  of  fashion  ;  for,  the  great 
arbiter  of  fashion,  the  Due  de  Richelieu,  lived 
there,  and,  to  inhabit  an  apartment  in  that 
street,  was  in  itself  a  mark  of  bon  ton.  Victor- 
ine seemed  almost  crazy  with  delight  when  they 
took  possession  of  their  new  abode,  "This  dear 
Paris !  This  lovely  France !  And  now  I  see 
my  young  lady,  my  darling,  my  angel,  in  a  room 
suited  to  her  beauty  and  her  rank :  such  as  my 
lady  her  mother  would  have  planned  for  her,  if 
she  had  lived.  Any  allusion  to  her  dead  mother 
always  touched  Theresa  to  the  quick.  She  was 
in  her  bed,  under  the  blue  silk  curtains  of  an 
alcove,  when  Victorine  said  this, —  being  too 
much  fatigued  after  her  journey  to  respond  to 
Vicforine's  rhapsodies ;  but  now  she  put  out  her 
little  hand  and  gave  Victorine's  a  pressure  of 
gratitude  and  pleasure.  Next  day  she  wander- 
ed about  the  rooms  and  admired  their  splendour 
almost  to  Victorine's  content.  Her  father.  Sir 
Mark,  found  a  handsome  carriage  and  horses 
for  his  darling's  use ;  and  also  found  that  not  less 
necessary  article — a  married  lady  of  rank  who 
would  take  his  girl  under  her  wing.  When  all 
these  preliminary  aiTangements  Avere  made,  who 
so  wildly  happy  as  Theresa !  Her  carriage  was 
of  the  newest  fashion,  fit  to  vie  with  any  on  the 
Cours  de  la  Reine,  the  then  fashionable  drive. 
The  box  at  the  Grand  Opera,  and  at  the  Fran- 
9ais,  which  she  shared  with  Madame  la  Duch- 
esse  de  G.,  was  the  centre  of  observation  ;  Vic- 
torine was  in  her  best  humour,  Theresa's  credit 
at  her  dressmaker's  was  unlimited,  her  indul- 
gent father  was  charmed  with  all  she  did  and 
said.  She  had  masters,  it  is  true ;  but,  to  a  rich 
and  beautiful  young  lady,  masters  were  wonder- 
fully complaisant,  and  with  them  as  with  all  the 
world,  she  did  what  she  pleased.  Of  Parisian 
society,  she  had  enough  and  more  than  enough. 
The  duchess  went  everywhere,  and  Tiieresa  went 
too.  So  did  a  certain  Count  de  la  Grange : 
some  relation  or  connexion  of  the  duchess : 
handsome,  with  a  south  of  France  handsome- 
ness :  with  delicate  features,  marred  by  an  over- 
softness  of  expression,  from  which  (so  men  said) 
the  tiger  was  occasionally  seen  to  peep  forth. 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


17 


Bnt,  for  elegance  of  dress  and  demeanour  he 
had  not  his  fellow  in  Pai-is — which  of  course 
meant,  not  in  the  world. 

Sir  Mark  heard  rumours  of  this  man's  con- 
duct, which  were  not  pleasing  to  him ;  but  when 
he  accompanied  his  daughter  into  society,  the 
count  was  only  as  deferential  as  it  became  a 
gentleman  to  be  to  so  much  beauty  and  grace. 
When  Theresa  was  taken  out  by  the  ducliess  to 
the  opera,  to  balls,  to  petits  soupers,  without  her 
father,  then  the  count  was  more  than  deferen- 
tial ;  he  was  adoring.  It  was  a  little  intoxica- 
ting for  a  girl  brought  up  iu  the  solitude  of  an 
English  village,  to  have  so  many  worshippers  at 
her  feet  all  at  once,  in  the  great  gay  city ;  and 
the  inbred  coquetry  of  her  nature  came  out, 
adding  to  her  outward  grace,  if  taking  away 
from  the  purity  and  dignity  of  her  character. 
It  was  Victorine's  delight  to  send  her  darling 
out  arrayed  for  conquest;  her  hair  delicately 
powdered,  and  scented  with  marechale ;  her  lit- 
tle "  mouches"  put  on  with  skill ;  the  tiny  half- 
moon  patch,  to  lengthen  the  already  almond- 
shaped  eye ;  the  minute  star  to  give  the  effect 
of  a  dimple  at  the  corner  of  her  scarlet  lips ;  the 
silver  gauze  looped  up  over  the  petticoat  of  blue 
brocade,  distended  over  a  hoop,  much  as  gowns 
are  worn  in  our  days;  the  coral  ornaments  of  her 
silver  dress,  matching  with  the  tint  of  the  high 
heels  to  her  shoes.  And,  at  night,  Victorine 
was  never  tired  of  listening  and  questioning; 
of  triumphing  in  Thei-esa's  triumphs ;  of  invari- 
ably reminding  her  that  she  was  bound  to  marry 
the  absent  cousin,  and  return  to  the  half-feudal 
state  of  the  old  castle  in  Sussex. 

Still,  even  now,  if  Duke  had  returned  from 
Italy,  all  might  have  gone  well ;  but  when  Sir 
Mark,  alarmed  by  the  various  proposals  he 're- 
ceived for  Theresa's  hand  from  needy  French 
noblemen,  and  by  the  admiration  she  was  ex- 
citing everywhere,  wrote  to  Duke,  and  urged 
him  to  join  them  in  Paris  on  his  return  from 
his  travels,  Duke  answered  that  three  months 
were  yet  unexpired  of  the  time  allotted  for  the 
grand  tour ;  and  that  he  was  anxious  to  avail 
himself  of  that  interval  to  see  something  of 
Spain.  Sir  Mark  read  this  letter  aloud  to 
Theresa,  with  many  expressions  of  annoyance 
as  he  read.  Theresa  merely  said,  "Of  course, 
Duke  does  what  he  likes,"  and  turned  away  to 
see  some  new  lace  brought  for  her  inspection. 
She  heard  her  father  sigh  over  a  reperusal 
of  Duke's  letter,  and  she  set  her  teeth  in  the 
anger  she  would  not  show  in  acts  or  words. 
That  day  the  Count  de  Grange  met  with  gentler 
treatment  from  her  than  he  had  done  for  many 
days — than  he  had  done  since  her  father's  letter 
to  Duke  had  been  sent  off  to  Genoa.  As  ill  for- 
tune would  have  it.  Sir  Mark  had  occasion  to 
return  to  England  at  this  time,  and  he,  guileless 
himself,  consigned  Theresa  and  her  maid  Vic- 
torine, and  her  man  Felix,  to  the  care  of  the 
duchess  for  three  weeks.  They  were  to  reside 
at  the  Hotel  de  G.  during  this  time.  The  duch- 
ess welcomed  them  in  her  most  caressing  man- 
ner, and  showed  Theresa  the  suite  of  rooms, 
with  the  little  private  staircase,  appropriated  to 
her  use. 

The  Count  de  Grange  was  an  habitual  visitor 
at  the  house  of  his  cousin  the  duchess,  who  was 
a  gay  Parisian,  absorbed  in  her  life  of  giddy  dis- 
sipation. The  count  found  means  of  influencing 
3 


Victorine  in  his  favour ;  not  by  money ;  so 
coarse  a  bribe  would  have  had  no  power  over 
her;  but  by  many  presents,  accompanied  with 
sentimental  letters,  breathing  devotion  to  her 
charge,  and  extremest  appreciation  of  the  faith- 
ful friend  whom  Theresa  looked  upon  as  ft 
mother,  and  whom  for  this  reason  he,  the  count, 
revered  and  loved.  Intermixed,  were  wily  allu- 
sions to  his  great  possessions  in  Provence,  and 
to  his  ancient  lineage : — the  one  mortgaged,  the 
other  disgraced.  Victorine,  whose  right  hand 
had  forgotten  its  cunning  in  the  length  of  her 
dreary  vegetation  at  Crowley  Castle,  was  de- 
ceived, and  became  a  vehement  advocate  of  the 
dissolute  Adonis  of  the  Paris  saloons,  in  his  suit 
to  her  darling.  When  Sir  Mark  came  back,  he 
was  dismayed  and  shocked  beyond  measure  by 
finding  the  count  and  Theresa  at  his  feet,  en- 
treating him  to  forgive  their  stolen  marriage — 
a  marriage  which,  though  incomplete  as  to  its 
legal  forms,  was  yet  too  complete  to  be  other- 
wise than  sanctioned  by  Theresa's  nearest  friends. 
The  duchess  accused  her  cousin  of  perfidy  and 
treason.  Sir  Mark  said  nothing.  But  his 
health  failed  from  that  time,  and  he  sank  into 
an  old  querulous  grey-haired  man. 

There  was  some  ado,  I  know  not  what,  be- 
tween Sir  Mark  and  the  count  regarding  the 
control  and  disposition  of  the  fortune  which 
Theresa  inherited  from  her  mother.  The  count 
gained  the  victory,  owing  to  the  different  nature 
of  the  French  laws  from  the  English ;  and  this 
made  Sir  Mark  abjure  the  country  and  the  city 
he  had  loved  so  long.  Henceforward,  he  swore, 
his  foot  should  never  touch  French  soil;  if 
Theresa  liked  to  come  and  see  him  at  Crowley 
Castle,  she  should  be  as  welcome  as  a  daughter 
of  the  house  ought  to  be,  and  ever  should  be ; 
but  her  husband  should  never  enter  the  gates  of 
the  house  in  Sir  Mark's  lifetime. 

For  some  months  he  was  out  of  humour  with 
Duke,  because  of  his  tardy  return  from  his  tour 
and  his  delay  in  joining  them  in  Paris :  through 
which,  so  Sir  Mark  fancied,  Theresa's  marriage 
had  been  brought  about.  But — when  Duke  came 
home,  depressed  in  spirits  and  submissive  to  his 
uncle,  even  under  imjust  blame — Sir  Mark  re- 
stored him  to  favour  in  the  course  of  a  summer's 
day,  and  henceforth  added  another  injury  to  the 
debtor  side  of  the  count's  reckoning. 

Duke  never  told  his  uncle  of  the  woful  ill-re- 
port he  had  heard  of  the  count  in  Paris,  where 
he  had  found  all  the  better  part  of  the  French 
nobility  pitying  the  lovely  English  heiress  who 
had  been  entrapped  into  a  marriage  with  one  of 
the  most  disreputable  of  their  order,  a  gambler 
and  a  reprobate.  He  could  not  leave  Paris  with- 
out seeing  Theresa,  whom  he  believed  to  be  as 
yet  unacquainted  with  his  arrival  in  the  city,  so 
he  went  to  call  upon  her  one  evening.  She  was 
sitting  alone,  splendidly  dressed,  ravishingly 
beautiful;  she  made  a  step  forward  to  meet 
him,  hardly  heeding  the  announcement  of  his 
name;  for  she  had  recognized  a  man's  tread, 
and  fancied  it  was  her  husband,  coming  to  ac- 
company her  to  some  grand  reception.  Duke 
saw  the  quick  change  from  hope  to  disappoint- 
ment on  her  mobile  face,  and  she  spoke  out  at 
once  her  reason.  "  Adolphe  promised  to  come 
and  fetch  me;  the  princess  receives  to-night.  I 
hardly  expected  a  visit  from  you,  cousin  Duke," 
recovering  herself  into  a  pretty  proad  reserve. 


18 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


"It  is  a  fortnight,  I  think,  since  I  heard  you 
were  in  Paris.  I  had  given  up  all  expectation 
of  the  honour  of  a  visit  from  you  I" 

Duke  felt  that,  as  she  had  heard  of  his  being 
there,  it  would  be  awkward  to  make  excuses 
wtich  both  she  and  he  must  know  to  be  false,  or 
explanations  the  very  truth  of  which  would  be 
offensive  to  the  loving,  trusting,  deceived  wife. 
So,  he  turned  the  conversation  to  his  travels,  his 
heart  aching  for  her  all  the  time,  as  he  noticed 
her  wandering  attention  when  she  heard  any 
passing  sound.  Ten,  eleven,  twelve  o'clock ;  he 
would  not  leave  her.  He  thought  his  presence 
was  a  comfort  and  a  pleasure  to  her.  But  when 
one  o'clock  struck,  sbe  said  some  unexpected 
business  must  have  detained  her  husband,  and 
she  was  glad  of  it,  as  she  had  all  along  felt  too 
much  tired  to  go  out :  and  besides,  the  happy 
consequence  of  her  husband's  detention  had  beeu 
that  long  t:\lk  with  Duke. 

He  did  not  sec  her  again  after  this  polite  dis- 
missal, uor  did  he  see  her  husband  at  all. 
Whether  through  ill  chance,  or  carefully  dis- 
guised purpose,  it  did  so  happen  that  he  called 
several  times,  he  wrote  several  notes  requesting 
an  appointment  when  he  might  come  with  the 
certainty  of  liuding  the  count  and  countess  at 
home,  in  order  to  wish  them  farewell  before  set- 
ting out  for  En;iland.  All  in  vain.  But  he 
said  nothing  to  Sir  Mark  of  all  this.  He  only 
tried  to  fill  up  the  blank  in  the  old  man's  life. 
He  went  between  Sir  Mark  and  the  tenants  to 
whom  lie  was  unwilling  to  show  himself  unac- 
companied by  the  beautiful  daughter,  who  had 
so  often  been  his  companion  in  his  walks  and 
rides,  before  that  ill-omened  winter  in  Paris. 
He  was  thankful  to  have  the  power  of  returning 
the  long  kindness  his  uncle  had  shown  him  in 
childhood;  thankful  to  be  of  use  to  him  in  his 
desertion ;  thankful  to  atone  in  same  measure 
for  his  neglect  of  his  uncle's  wish  that  he  should 
have  made  a  hasty  return  to  Paris. 

But  it  was  a  little  dull  after  the  long  excite- 
ment of  travel,  after  associating  with  all  that 
was  most  cultivated  and  seeing  all  that  was  most 
famous,  in  Europe,  to  be  shut  up  in  that  vast 
magnificent  dreary  old  castle,  with  Sir  Mark  for 
a  perpetual  companion — Sir  Mark,  and  no  other. 
The  j)arsonage  was  near  at  hand,  and  occasion- 
ally Mr.  Hawtrey  came  in  to  visit  his  parishioner 
in  his  trouble.  But  Sir  Mark  kept  the  clergy- 
man at  bay ;  he  knew  that  his  brother  in  age, 
his  brother  in  circumstances  (for  had  not  Mr. 
Hawtrey  an  only  child  and  she  a  daughter?), 
was^ympathising  with  him  in  his  sorrow,  and 
he  \vas  too  proud  to  bear  it ;  indeed,  sometimes 
he  was  so  rude  to  his  old  neighbour,  that  Duke 
would  go  next  morning  to  the  Parsonage,  to 
soothe  the  smart. 

And  so— and  so — gradually,  imperceptibly,  at 
last  his  heart  was  drawn  to  Bessy.  Her  mother 
angled  and  angled  skilfully;  at  first  scarcely 
daring  to  hope ;  then  remembering  her  own  de- 
scent from  the  same  stock  as  Duke,  she  drew 
herself  up,  and  set  to  work  with  fresh  skill  and 
vigour.  To  be  sure,  it  was  a  dangerous  game 
for  a  mother  to  play ;  for  her  daughter's  happi- 
ness was  staked  on  her  success.  How  could 
simple  country-bred  Bessy  help  being  attracted 
to  the  courtly  handsome  man,  travelled  and  ac- 
complished, good  and  gentle,  whom  she  saw 
every  day,  and  who  treated  her  with  the  kind 


familiarity  of  a  brother ;  while  he  was  not  a 
brother,  but  in  some  measure  a  disappointed 
man,  as  everybody  knew?  Bessy  was  a  daisv 
of  an  English  maiden;  pure  good  to  the  he&rt's 
core  and  most  hidden  thought ;  sensible  in  all 
her  accustomed  daily  ways,  yet  not  so  much 
without  imagination  as  not  to  desire  something 
beyond  the  narrow  range  of  knowledge  and  ex- 
perience in  which  her  days  had  hitherto  been 
passed.  Add  to  this  her  jiretty  figure,  a  bright 
healthy  complexion,  lovely  teeth,  and  quite 
enough  of  beauty  in  her  other  features  to  liave 
rendered  her  the  belle  of  a  country  town,  if  her 
lot  had  been  cast  in  such  a  place ;  and  it  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at,  that,  after  she  had  been  se- 
cretly in  love  with  Duke  with  all  her  heart  for 
nearly  a  year,  almost  worshipping  him,  he  should 
discover  that,  of  all  the  women  he  had  ever 
known — except  perhaps  the  lost  Theresa — Bessy 
Hawtrey  had  it  in  her  power  to  make  him  the 
happiest  of  men. 

Sir  Mark  grumbled  a  little;  but  now-a-days 
he  grumbled  at  every  thing,  poor  disappointed, 
all  but  childless,  old  man.  As  to  the  vicar  he 
stood  astonished  and  almost  dismayed.  "Have 
you  thought  enough  about  it,  Mr.  Duke?"  the 
parson  asked.  "  Young  men  are  apt  to  do  things 
in  a  hurry,  that  they  repent  at  leisure.  Bessy 
is  a  good  girl,  a  good  girl,  God  bless  her:  but 
she  has  not  been  brought  up  as  your  wife  sliould 
have  been  :  at  least  as  folks  will  say  your  wife 
should  have  been.  Though  I  may  say  for  her 
she  has  a  very  pretty  sprinkling  of  mathematics. 
I  taught  her  myself,  Mr.  Duke." 

' '  May  I  go  and  ask  her  myself  ?  I  only  want 
your  permission,"  urged  Duke. 

' '  Ay,  go  !  But  perhaps  you'd  better  ask  Mad- 
am first.  She  will  like  to  bo  told  everything  as 
soon  as  me." 

But  Duke  did  not  care  for  Madam.  He  rushed 
through  the  open  door  of  the  Parsonage,  into  the 
homely  sitting-rooms,  and  softly  called  for  Bessy. 
When  she  came,  he  took  her  by  the  hand  and 
led  her  forth  into  the  field-path  at  the  back  of 
the  orchard,  and  there  he  won  his  bride  to  the 
full  content  of  both  their  hearts. 

All  this  time  the  inhabitants  of  Crowley  Castle 
and  the  quiet  people  of  the  neighbouring  village 
of  Crowley,  heard  but  little  of  "  The  Countess," 
as  it  was  their  fashion  to  call  her.  Sir  Mark 
had  his  letters  from  her,  it  is  true,  and  he  read 
them  over  and  over  again,  and  moaned  over 
them,  and  sighed,  and  put  them  carefully  away 
in  a  bundle.  But  they  were  like  arrows  of  pain 
to  him.  None  knew  their  contents ;  none,  even 
knowing  them,  would  have  dreamed,  any  more 
than  he  did,  for  all  his  moans  and  sighs,  of  the 
utter  wretchedness  of  the  writer.  Love  had  long 
since  vanished  from  the  habitation  of  that  pair; 
a  habitation,  not  a  home,  even  in  its  brightest 
days.  Love  had  gone  out  of  the  window,  long 
before  poverty  had  come  in  at  the  door :  yet  that 
grim  visitant  who  never  tarries  in  tracking  a  dis- 
reputable gambler  had  now  arrived.  The  count 
lost  the  last  remnants  of  his  character  as  a  man 
who  played  honourably,  and  thencefortli — that 
being  pretty  nearly  the  only  sin  which  banished 
men  from  good  society  in  those  days — he  had  to 
play  where  and  how  he  could.  Tlieresa's  money 
went  as  her  poor  angry  father  had  foretold.  By- 
and-by,  and  without  her  consent,  her  jewel-box 
was  rifled ;  the  diamonds  round  the  locket  hold- 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


19 


ing  her  mother's  picture  were  ^vi-enched  and 
picked  out  by  no  careful  hand.  Victorine  found 
Theresa  crying  over  the  jjoor  relics ;  —  crying 
at  last,  without  disguise,  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

"Oh,  mamma!  mamma!  mamma!"  she  sobbed 
oat,  holding  up  the  smashed  and  disfigured 
mmiature  as  an  explanation  of  her  grief.  She 
was  sitting  on  the  floor,  on  which  she  had  thrown 
herself  in  the  first  discovery  of  the  theft.  Vic- 
torine sat  down  by  her,  taking  her  head  upon 
her  breast,  and  soothing  her.  She  did  not  ask 
who  had  done  it ;  she  asked  Theresa  no  question 
which  the  latter  would  have  shrunk  from  an- 
swering ;  she  knew  all  in  that  hour,  without  the 
.  count's  name  having  passed  the  lips  of  either  of 
them.  And  from  that  time  she  watched  him  as 
a  tiger  watches  his  prey. 

When  the  letters  came  from  England,  the 
three  letters  from  Sir  Mark  and  the  affianced 
bride  and  bridegroom,  announcing  the  approach- 
ing marriage  of  Duke  and  Bessy,  Theresa  took 
them  straight  to  Victorine.  Theresa's  lips  were 
tightened,  her  pale  cheeks  were  paler.  She 
waited  for  Victorine  to  speak.  Not  a  word  did 
the  Frenchwoman  utter ;  but  she  smoothed  the 
lettere  one  over  the  other,  and  tore  them  in  two, 
throwing  the  pieces  on  the  ground,  and  stamping 
on  them. 

"Oh,  Victorine!"  criod  Theresa,  dismayed 
at  passion  that  went  so  far  beyond  her  own,  "I 
never  expected  it — I  never  thought  of  it — but, 
perhaps,  it  was  but  natural." 

"It  was  not  natural;  it  was  infamous!  To 
have  loved  you  once,  and  not  to  wait  for  chances, 
but  to  take  up  with  that  mean  poor  girl  at  the 
Parsonage.  Pah!  and  Acr  letter!  Sir  Mark  is 
of  my  mind,  though,  I  can  see.  I  am  soiTy  I 
tore  up  his  letter.  He  feels,  he  knows,  that  Mr. 
Duke  Brownlow  ought  to  have  waited,  waited, 
waited.  Some  one  waited  fourteen  years,  did 
he  not?    Tlie  count  will  not  live  for  ever." 

Theresa  did  not  see  the  face  of  wicked  mean- 
ing as  those  last  words  were  spoken. 

Another  year  rolled  heavily  on  its  course  of 
^VTetchedness  to  Theresa.  That  same  revolution 
of  time  brought  increase  of  peace  and  joy  to  the 
English  couple,  striving  humbly,  striving  well, 
to  do  their  duty  as  children  to  the  unhappy  and 
deserted  Sir  Mark.  They  had  their  reward  in 
the  birth  of  a  little  girl.  Yet,  close  on  the  heels 
of  this  birth  followed  a  great  sorrow.  The  good 
parson  died,  after  a  short  sudden  illness.  Then 
came  the  customary  trouble  after  the  death  of  a 
clergyman.  The  widow  had  to  leave  the  Par- 
sonage, the  home  of  a  lifetime,  and  seek  fi  new 
resting-place  for  her  declining  years. 

Fortunately  for  all  parties,  the  new  vicar  was 
a  bachelor;  no  other  than  the  tutor  who  had 
accompanied  Duke  on  his  grand  tour ;  and  it 
was  made  a  condition  that  he  should  allow  the 
widow  of  his  predecessor  to  remain  at  the  Par- 
sonage as  his  housekeeper.  Bessy  would  fain 
have  had  her  mother  at  the  castle,  and  this 
course  would  have  been  infinitely  preferred  by 
Madam  Hawtrey,  who,  indeed,  suggested  the 
wish  to  her  daughter.  But  Sir  Mark  was  ob- 
stinately against  it ;  nor  did  he  spare  his  caustic 
remarks  on  Madam  Hawtrey,  even  before  her 
own  daughter.  He  had  never  quite  forgiven 
Duke's  marriage,  although  he  was  personally 
exceedingly  fond  of  Bessy.     He   referred  this 


marriage,  in  some  part,  and  perhaps  to  no  great- 
er extent  than  was  true,  to  madam's  good  man- 
agement in  throwing  the  young  people  togeth- 
er ;  and  he  was  explicit  in  the  expression  of  his 
opinion. 

Poor  Theresa !  Every  day  she  more  and  more 
bitterly  rued  her  ill-starred  marriage.  Often  and 
often  she  cried  to  herself,  when  she  was  alone  in 
the  dead  of  the  night,  I  cannot  bear  it — I  can- 
not bear  it!"  But  again  in  the  daylight  her 
pride  would  help  her  to  keep  her  woe  to  herself. 
She  could  not  bear  the  gaze  of  pitying  eyes ;  she 
could  not  bear  ev^n  Victorine's  fierce  sympathy. 
She  might  have  gone  home  like  a  poor  prodigal 
to  her  father,  if  Duke  and  Bessy  had  not,  as  she 
imagined,  reigned  triumphant  in  her  place,  both 
in  her  father's  heart  and  in  her  father's  home. 
And  all  this  while,  that  father  almost  hated  the 
tender  attentions  which  were  rendered  to  him 
by  those  who  were  not  his  Theresa,  his  only 
child,  for  whose  presence  he  yearned  and  longed 
in  silent  misery.  Then  again  (to  return  to 
Theresa),  her  husband  had  his  fits  of  kindness 
towards  her.  If  he  had  been  very  fortunate  in 
play,  if  he  had  heard  other  men  admire  her,  he 
would  come  back  for  a  few  moments  to  his  loy- 
alty, and  would  lure  back  the  poor  tortured 
heart,  only  to  crush  it  afresh.  One  day — after 
a  short  time  of  easy  temper,  caresses,  and  levity 
— she  found  out  something,  I  know  not  what,  in 
his  life,  which  stung  her  to  the  quick.  Her 
sharp  wits  and  sharper  tongue  spoke  out  most 
cutting  insults ;  at  first  he  smiled,  as  if  rather 
amused  to  see  how  she  was  ransacking  her  brain 
to  find  stabbing  speeches;  but  at  length  she 
touched  some  sore  ;  he  scarcely  lost  the  mocking 
smile  upon  his  face,  but  his  eyes  flashed  lurid 
fire,  and  his  heavy  closed  hand  fell  on  her  white 
shoulder  with  a  terrible  blow ! 

She  stood  up,  facing  him,  tearless,  deadly 
white.  "The  poor  old  man  at  home !"  was  all 
she  said,  trembling,  shivering  all  over,  but  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  his  coward  face.  He  shrank 
from  her  look,  laughed  aloud  to  hide  what- 
ever feeling  might  be  hidden  in  his  bosom,  and 
left  the  room.  She  only  said  again,  "The  poor 
old  man — tlie  poor  old  deserted,  desolate  man !" 
and  felt  about  blindly  for  a  chair. 

She  had  not  sat  down  a  minute  though,  be- 
fore she  started  up  and  rang  her  bell.  It  was 
Victorine's  ofiice  to  answer  it ;  but  Theresa 
looked  almost  surprised  to  see  her.  "You  ! — I 
wanted  the  others  —  I  want  them  all!  They 
shall  all  see  how  their  master  treats  his  wife ! 
Look  here !"  she  pushed  the  gauze  neckerchief 
from  her  shoulder — the  mark  was  there  red  and 
swollen.  "  Bid  them  all  come  here — Victorine, 
Amadee,  Jean,  Adele,  all — I  will  be  justified  by 
their  testimony,  whatever  I  do !"  Then  she  fell 
to  shaking  and  crying. 

Victorine  said  nothing,  but  went  to  a  certain 
cupboard  where  she  kept  medicines  and  drugs 
of  which  she  alone  knew  the  properties,  and 
there  she  mixed  a  draught,  which  she  made  her 
mistress  take.  Wliatever  its  nature  was,  it  was 
soothing.  Theresa  leaned  back  in  her  chair, 
still  sobbing  heavily  from  time  to  time,  until  at 
last  she  dropped  into  a  kind  of  doze.  Then 
Victorine  softly  lifted  the  neckerchief,  which  had 
fallen  into  its  place,  and  looked  at  the  mark. 
She  did  not  si^eak;  but  her  whole  face  was  a 
fearful  threat.     After  she  had  looked  her  fill. 


so 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'vS  LODGINGS. 


she  smiled  a  deadly  smile.  And  then  she  touched 
the  soft  bruised  flesh  with  her  lips,  much  as 
thoufih  Theresa  were  the  child  she  had  been 
twenty  years  ago.  Soft  as  the  touch  was  There- 
sa shivered,  and  started  and  half  awoke.  "Are 
they  come?"  she  murmured;  "Amade'e,  Jean, 
Adele?"  but  without  waiting  for  an  answer  she 
fell  asleep  again. 

Victorine  went  quietly  back  to  the  cupboard 
where  she  kept  her  drugs,  and  stayed  there, 
mixing  something  noiselessly.  When  she  had 
done  what  she  wanted,  she  returned  to  her  mis- 
tress's bedroom,  and  looked  at  her,  still  sleep- 
ing. Then  she  began  to  aiTange  the  room.  No 
blue  silk  curtains  and  silver  mirrors,  now,  as  in 
the  Rue  Louis  le  Grand.  A  washed-out  faded 
Indian  chintz,  and  an  old  battered  toilette  serv- 
ice of  Japan-ware ;  the  disorderly  signs  of  the 
count's  late  presence;  an  emptied  flask  of  liqueur. 

All  the  time  Victorine  arranged  this  room 
she  kept  saying  to  herself,  "At  last !  At  last !" 
Theresa  slept  through  the  daylight,  slept  late 
into  the  evening,  leaning  back  where  she  had 
fallen  in  her  chair.  She  was  so  motionless  that 
Victorine  appeared  alarmed.  Once  or  twice 
she  felt  her  pulse,  and  gazed  earnestly  into  the 
tear-.stained  face.  Once,  she  very  carefully  lift- 
ed one  of  the  eyelids,  and  holding  a  lighted 
taper  near,  peered  into  the  eye.  Apparently 
satisfied,  she  went  out  and  ordered  a  basin  of 
broth  to  be  ready  when  she  asked  for  it.  Again 
she  sat  in  deep  silence ;  nothing  stirred  in  the 
closed  chamber ;  but  in  the  street  the  carriages 
began  to  roll,  and  the  footmen  and  torch-bear- 
ers to  cry  aloud  their  masters'  names  and  titles, 
to  show  what  carriage  in  that  narrow  street  be- 
low was  entitled  to  precedence.  A  carriage 
stopped  at  the  hotel  of  which  they  occupied  the 
third  floor.  Then  the  bell  of  their  apartment 
rang  loudly — rang  violently.  Victorine  went  out 
to  sec  what  it  was  that  might  disturb  her  dar- 
ling—  as  she  called  Theresa  to  herself — her 
sleeping  lady  as  she  spoke  of  her  to  her  serv- 
ants. 

She  met  those  servants  bringing  in  their  mas- 
ter, the  count,  dead.  Dead  with  a  sword-wound 
received  in  some  infamous  struggle.  Victorine 
stood  and  looked  at  him.  ' ' Better  so,"  she  mut- 
tered. "Better  so.  But,  monseigneur,  yon 
shall  take  this  with  you,  whithersoever  your 
wicked  soul  is  fleeing."  And  she  struck  him  a 
stroke  on  his  shoulder,  just  where  Theresa's 
bruise  was.  It  was  as  light  a  stroke  as  well 
could  be ;  but  this  irreverence  to  the  dead  called 
forth  indignation  even  from  the  hardest  bearers 
of  the  body.  Little  recked  Victorine.  She 
turned  her  back  on  the  corpse,  went  to  her  cup- 
board, took  out  the  mixture  she  had  made  with 
so  much  care,  poured  it  \put  upon  the  bare  wood- 
en floor,  and  smeared  it  about  with  her  foot. 

A  fortnight  later,  when  no  news  had  come 
from  Theresa  for  many  weeks,  a  poor  chaise 
wa.s  seen  from  the  castle  windows  lumbering 
slowly  up  the  carnage  road  to  the  gate.  No 
one  thought  much  of  it;  perhaps  it  was  some 
friend  of  the  housekeeper's ;  perhaps  it  was  some 
humble  relation  of  Mrs.  Duke's  (for  many  such 
had  found  out  their  cousin  since  her  marriage). 
No  one  noticed  the  shabby  carriage  much,  until 
the  hall-porter  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  the 
great  bell  pealing,  and,  on  opening  wide  the 
hall-doors,  saw  standing  before  him  the  Made- 


moiselle Victorine  of  old  days — thinner,  sallow- 
er,  in  mourning.  In  the  carriage  sat  Theresa, 
in  the  deep  widow's  weeds  of  tliose  days.  She 
looked  out  of  the  can-iage-window  wistfully,  in 
beyond  Joseph,  the  hall-porter. 

"My  father!"  she  cried,  eagerly,  before  Vic- 
torine could  speak.  "Is  Sir  Mark  —  well?" 
("alive"  Was  her  first  thought,  but  she  dared 
not  give  the  word  utterance.) 

"Call  Mr.  Duke!"  said  Joseph,  speaking  to 
some  one  unseen.  Then  he  came  forward. 
"God  bless  you,  Miss!  God  bless  you!  And 
this  day  of  all  days!  Sir  Mark  is  well — least- 
ways he's  sadly  changed.  Where's  JMr.  Duke? 
Call  him !     My  young  lady's  fainting !" 

And  this  was  Theresa's  return  home.  None 
ever  knew  how  much  she  had  suffered  since  she 
had  left  home.  If  any  one  had  known,  Victo- 
rine would  never  have  stood  there  dressed  in 
that  mourning.  She  put  it  on,  sorely  against 
her  will,  for  the  purpose  of  upholding  the  lying 
fiction  of  Theresa's  having  been  a  happy  \nos- 
perous  marriage.  She  was  always  indignant  if 
any  one  of  the  old  servants  fell  back  into  the 
once  familiar  appellation  of  Miss  Theresa.  "The 
countess,"  she  would  say,  in  lofty  rebuke. 

What  passed  between  Theresa  and  her  father 
at  that  first  inteniew  no  one  ever  knew.  Wheth- 
er she  told  him  anything  of  lier  married  life,  or 
whether  she  only  soothed  the  tears  he  shed  on 
seeing  her  again,  by  sweet  repetition  of  tender 
words  and  caresses — snch  as  are  the  sugared 
pabulum  of  age  as  well  as  of  infancy — no  one 
ever  knew.  Neither  Duke  nor  his  wife  ever 
heard  her  allude  to  the  time  she  had  passed  in 
Paris,  except  in  the  most  cursory  and  superficial 
manner.  Sir  Mark  was  anxious  to  show  her 
that  all  was  forgiven,  and  would  fain  have  dis- 
placed Bessy  from  her  place  as  lady  of  the  cas- 
tle, and  made  Theresa  take  the  headship  of 
the  house,  and  sit  at  table  where  the  mistress 
ought  to  be.  And  Bessy  would  have  given 
up  her  onerous  dignities  without  a  word ;  for 
Duke  was  always  more  jealous  for  his  wife's 
position  than  she  herself  was,  but  Theresa  de- 
clined to  assume  any  such  place  in  the  house- 
hold, saying,  in  the  languid  way  which  now 
seemed  habitual  to  her,  that  English  house- 
keeping, and  all  the  domestic  arrangements  of  i 
an  English  country  house  were  cumbrous  and 
wearisome  to  her;  that  if  Bessy  would  continue  ^ 
to  act  as  she  had  done  hitherto,  and  would  so 
forestal  what  must  be  her  natural  duties  at  some 
future  period,  she,  Theresa,  should  be  infinitely 
obliged. 

Bessy  consented,  and  in  everything  tried  to 
remember  what  Theresa  liked,  and  how  aff'airs 
were  ordered  in  the  old  Theresa  days.  She 
wished  the  servants  to  feel  that  "the  countess" 
had  equal  rights  with  herself  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  house.  But  she,  to  whom  the 
housekeeper  takes  her  accounts — she  in  whose 
hands  the  power  of  conferring  favours  and  privi- 
leges remains  de  facto — will  always  be  held  by 
servants  as  the  mistress :  and  Theresa's  claims 
soon  sank  into  the  background.  At  first,  she 
was  too  broken-spirited,  too  languid,  to  care  for 
anything  but  quiet  rest  in  her  father's  compan- 
ionship. They  sat  sometimes  for  hours  hand  in 
hand;  or  they  sauntered  out  on  the  terraces, 
hardly  speaking,  but  happy ;  because  they  were 
once  more  together,  and  once  more  on  loving 


MRS.  LIRRIPER  S  LODGINGS. 


21 


terms.  Theresa  grew  stronp  during  this  time 
of  gentle  brooding  peace.  The  jjiuched  pale 
face  of  anxiety  lined  with  traces  of  suftering,  re- 
laxed into  tlie  soft  oval ;  the  light  came  into  the 
eyes,  the  colour  came  into  the  cheeks. 

But,  in  the  autumn  after  Theresa's  return,  Sir 
Mar^  died;  it  had  been  a  gradual  decline  of 
strengtli,  and  his  last  moments  were  passed  in 
her  arms.  Her  new  misfortune  threw  her  back 
into  the  wan  worn  creature  she  had  been  when 
she  first  came  home,  a  widow,  to  Crowley  Cas- 
tle ;  she  shut  herself  up  in  her  rooms,  and  al- 
lowed no  one  to  come  near  her  but  Victorine. 
Neither  Duke  nor  Bessy  was  admitted  into  the 
darkened  rooms,  which  she  had  hung  with  black 
cloth  in  solemn  funereal  state. 

Victorine's  life  since  her  return  to  the  castle 
had  been  anything  but  peaceable.  New  powers 
had  arisen  in  the  housekeeper's  room.  Madam 
Brownlow  had  her  maid,  far  more  exacting  than 
Madam  Brownlow  herself;  and  a  new  house- 
keeper reigned  in  the  place  of  her  who  was  for- 
merly but  an  echo  of  Victorine's  opinions.  Victor- 
ine's own  temper,  too,  was  not  improved  by  her 
four  years  abroad,  and  there  was  a  general  dis- 
position among  the  servants  to  resist  all  her  as- 
siimption  of  authority.  She  felt  her  powerless- 
ness  after  a  struggle  or  two,  but  treasured  up  her 
vengeance.  If  she  had  lost  power  over  the 
household,  however,  there  was  no  diminution 
of  her  influence  over  her  mistress.  It  was  her 
device  at  last  that  lured  the  countess  out  of  her 
gloomy  seclusion. 

Almost  the  only  creatnre  Victorine  cared  for, 
besides  Theresa,  was  the  little  Mary  Bro^vnlow. 
What  there  was  of  softness  in  her  woman's  na- 
ture, seemed  to  come  out  towards  children ; 
tiiough,  if  the  child  had  been  a  boy  instead  of  a 
girl,  it  is  probable  that  Victorine  might  not 
have  taken  it  into  her  good  graces.  As  it  was, 
the  French  nurse  and  the  English  child  were 
caj)ital  friends ;  and  when  Victorine  sent  Mary 
into  the  countess's  room,  and  bade  her  not  be 
afraid,  but  ask  the  lady  in  her  infantine  babble 
to  come  out  and  see  Mary's  snow -man,  she 
knew  that  the  little  one,  for  her  sake,  would 
})ut  her  small  hand  into  Theresa's,  and  thus 
plead  with  more  success,  because  with  less  pur- 
pose, than  any  one  else  had  been  able  to  plead. 
Out  came  Theresa,  colourless  and  sad,  holding 
Mary  by  the  hand.  They  went,  unobserved  as 
they  thought,  to  the  great  gallery-window,  and 
looked  out  into  the  court-yard ;  then  Theresa 
returned  to  her  rooms.  But  the  ice  was  broken, 
and  before  the  winter  was  over,  Theresa  fell 
into  her  old  ways,  and  sometimes  smiled,  and 
sometimes  even  laughed,  until  chance  visitors 
again  spoke  of  her  rare  beauty  and  her  courtly 
grace. 

,  It  was  noticeable  that  Theresa  revived  first 
out  of  her  lassitude  to  an  interest  in  all  Duke's 
pursuits.  She  grew  weary  of  Bessy's  small 
cares  and  domestic  talk — now  about  the  serv- 
ants, now  about  her  mother  and  the  Parsonage, 
now  about  the  parish.  She  questioned  Duke 
about  his  travels,  and  could  enter  into  his  appre- 
ciation and  judgment  of  foreign  nations ;  she 
perceived  the  latent  powers  of  his  mind  ;  she  be- 
came impatient  of  tiieir  remaining  dormant  in 
country  seclusion.  She  had  spoken  of  leaving 
Crowley  Castle,  and  of  finding  some  other  home, 
Boon  after  Iicr  father's  death;  but  both  Duke 


and  Bessy  had  urged  her  to  stay  with  them, 
Bessy  saying,  in  tlie  pure  innocence  of  her  heart, 
how  glad  she  was  that,  in  the  probably  increas- 
ing cares  of  her  nursery,  Duke  would  have  a 
companion  so  much  to  his  mind. 

About  a  year  after  Sir  Mark's  death,  the  mem- 
ber for  Sussex  died,  and  Theresa  set  herself  to 
stir  up  Duke  to  assume  his  jjlace.  With  some 
difficulty  (for  Bessy  was  passive :  perhaps  eveti 
opposed  to  the  scheme  in  her  quiet  way),  There- 
sa succeeded,  and  Duke  was  elected.  She  was 
vexed  at  Uessy's  torpor,  as  she  called  it,  in  the 
whole  affair ;  vexed  as  she  now  often  was  with 
Bessy's  sluggish  interest  in  all  things  beyond  her 
immediate  ken.  Once,  when  Theresa  tried  to 
make  Bessy  perceive  how  Duke  might  shine  and 
rise  in  his  new  sphere,  Bessy  burst  into  'tears, 
and  said,  "You  speak  as  if  his  presence  here 
were  nothing,  and  his  fame  in  London  every- 
thing. I  can  not  help  fearing  that  he  will  leave 
off  caring  for  all  the  quiet  ways  in  which  we 
have  been  so  happy  ever  since  we  were  mar- 
ried." 

"But  when  he  is  here,"  replied  Theresa,  "and 
when  he  wants  to  talk  to  you  of  politics,  of  for- 
eign news,  of  great  public  interests,  yon  drag 
him  down  to  your  level  of  woman's  cares." 

"  Do  I  ?"  said  Bessy.  "  Do  I  drag  him  down  ? 
I  wish  I  was  cleverer ;  but  you  know,  Theresa, 
I  was  never  clever  in  anything  but  housewifery." 

Theresa  was  touched  for  a  moment  by  tJiis 
humility. 

"Yet,  Bessy,  yon  have  a  great  deal  of  judg- 
ment, if  you  will  but  exercise  it.  Try  and  take 
an  interest  in  all  he  cares  for,  as  well  as  making 
him  try  and  take  an  interest  in  home  affairs." 

But,  somehow,  this  kind  of  conversation  too 
often  ended  in  dissatisfaction  on  both  sides ;  and 
the  sen'ants  gathered,  from  induction  rather 
than  from  words,  that  the  two  ladies  were  not 
on  the  most  cordial  terms;  however  friendly 
they  might  wish  to  be,  and  might  strive  to  ap- 
pear. Madam  Hawtrey,  too,  allowed  her  jeal- 
ousy of  Theresa  to  deepen  into  dislike.  She 
was  jealous  because,  in  some  unreasonable  way, 
she  had  taken  it  into  her  head  that  Theresa's 
presence  at  the  castle  was  the  reason  why  she 
was  not  urged  to  take  up  her  abode  there  on  Sir 
Mark's  death :  as  if  there  were  not  rooms  and 
suits  of  rooms  enough  to  lodge  a  wilderness  of 
dowagers  in  the  building,  if  the  owner  so  wish- 
ed. But  Duke  had  certain  ideas  pretty  strong- 
ly fixed  in  his  mind ;  and  one  was  a  repugnance 
to  his  mother-in-law's  constant  company.  But 
he  greatly  increased  her  income  as  soon  as  he 
had  it  in  his  power,  and  left  it  entirely  to  herself 
how  she  should  spend  it. 

Having  now  the  means  of  travelling  about, 
Madam  Ilawtrey  betook  herself  pretty  frequent- 
ly to  such  watering-places  as  were  in  vogue  at 
that  day,  or  went  to  pay  visits  at  the  houses  of 
those  friends  who  occasionally  came  lumbering 
up  in  shabby  vehicles  to  visit  their  cousin  Bessy 
at  the  castle.  Theresa  cared  little  for  Madam 
Hawtrey's  coldness ;  perhaps,  indeed,  never  per- 
ceived It.  She  gave  up  striving  with  Bessy, 
too ;  it  was  hopeless  to  try  to  make  her  an  in- 
tellectual ambitious  companion  to  her  husband. 
He  had  spoken  in  the  House ;  he  had  written  a 
pamphlet  that  made  much  noise ;  the  minister 
of  the  day  had  sought  him  out  and  was  trying 
to  attach  him  to  the  government.    Theresa,  with 


22 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


her  Parisian  experience  of  the  way  in  which 
women  influenced  polirics,  would  have  given 
anything  for  the  Brownlows  to  have  taken  a 
house  in  London.  She  longed  to  see  the  great 
politicians,  to  find  herself  in  the  thick  of  the 
struggle  for  place  and  power,  the  brilliant  centre 
of  all  that  was  worth  hearing  and  seeing  in  the 
kingdom.  There  had  been  some  talk  of  this 
same  London  honse;  but  Bessy  had  pleaded 
against  it  earnestly  while  Theresa  sat  by  in  in- 
dignant silence,  until  she  could  bear  the  discus- 
sion no  longer;  going  off  to  her  own  sitting- 
room,  where  Victorine  was  at  work.  Here  her 
pent-up  words  found  vent — not  addressed  to  her 
servant,  but  not  restrained  before  her : 

"  I  can  not  bear  it — to  see  him  cramped  in  by 
her  narrow  mind,  to  hear  her  weak  selfish  argu- 
ments, urged  because  she  feels  she  would  be  out 
of  place  beside  him.  And  Duke  is  hampered 
with  this  woman :  he  whose  powers  are  un- 
known even  to  himself,  or  he  w^ould  put  her 
feeble  nature  on  one  side,  and  seek  his  higher 
atmosphere.  How  he  would  shine !  How  he 
does  shine !    Good  Heaven !    To  think " 

And  here  she  sank  into  silence,  watched  by 
Victorine's  furtive  eyes. 

Duke  had  excelled  all  he  had  previously  done 
by  some  great  burst  of  eloquence,  and  the  coun- 
try' rang  with  his  words.  He  was  to  come  down 
to  Crowley  Castle  for  a  parliamentary  recess, 
which  occurred  almost  immediately  after  this. 
Theresa  calculated  the  hours  of  each  part  of  the 
complicated  journey,  and  could  have  told  to  five 
minutes  when  he  might  be  expected;  but  the 
baby  was  ill  and  absorbed  all  Bessy's  attention. 
She  was  in  the  nursery  by  the  cradle  in  which 
the  child  slept,  when  her  husbjind  came  riding 
np  to  the  castle  gate.  But  Theresa  was  at  the 
gate;  her  hair  all  out  of  powder,  and  blowing 
away  into  dishevelled  curls,  as  the  hood  of  her 
cloak  fell  back ;  her  lips  parted  with  a  breath- 
less welcome;  her  eyes  shining  out  love  and 
pride.  Duke  was  but  mortal.  All  London 
chanted  his  rising  fame ;  and  here  in  his  home 
Theresa  seemed  to  be  the  only  person  who  ap- 
preciated him. 

The  servants  clustered  in  the  great  hall ;  for 
it  was  now  some  length  of  time  since  he  had 
been  at  home.  Victorine  was  there,  with  some 
head-gear  for  her  lady ;  and  when,  in  reply  to 
his  inquiry  for  his  wife,  the  grave  butler  assert- 
ed that  she  was  with  young  master,  who  was, 
they  feared,  very  seriously  ill,  Victorine  said, 
with  the  familiarity  of  an  old  servant,  and  as  if 
to  assuage  Duke's  anxiety:  "Madam  fancies 
the  child  is  ill,  because  she  can  think  of  nothing 
but  him,  and  perpetual  watching  has  made  her 
nervous."  The  child,  however,  was  really  ill ; 
and  after  a  brief  greeting  to  her  husband,  Bessy 
returned  to  her  nursery,  leaving  Theresa  to 
question,  to  hear,  to  sympathise.  That  night 
she  gave  way  to  another  burst  of  disparaging  re- 
marks on  poor  motherly  homely  Bessy,  and  that 
night  Victorine  thought  she  read  a  deeper  secret 
in  Theresa's  heart. 

The  child  was  scarcely  ever  out  of  its  mother's 
arms ;  but  the  illness  became  worse,  and  it  was 
nigh  unto  death.  Some  cream  had  been  set 
aside  for  the  little  wailing  creature,  and  Victor- 
ine had  unwittingly  used  it  for  the  making  of  a 
cosmetic  for  her  mistress.  When  the  servant  in 
charge  of  it  reproved  her,  a  quarrel  began  as  to 


their  respective  mistress's  right  to  give  orders  in 
the  household.  Before  the  dispute  ended,  pret- 
ty strong  things  had  been  said  on  botli  sides. 

The  child  died.  The  heir  was  lifeless;  the 
servants  were  in  whispering  dismay,  and  bustling 
discussion  of  their  mouming ;  Duke  felt  the  van- 
ity of  fame,  as  compared  to  a  baby's  life.  •The- 
resa was  full  of  sympathy,  but  dared  not  exjircss 
it  to  him ;  so  tender  was  her  heart  becoming. 
Victorine  regretted  the  death  in  her  own  way. 
Bessy  lay  speechless,  and  tearless ;  not  caring 
for  loving  voices,  nor  for  gentle  touches ;  taking 
neither  food  nor  drink ;  neither  sleeping  nor 
weeping.  "  Send  for  her  mother,"  the  doctor 
said ;  for  Madam  Hawtrcy  was  away  on  her  vis- 
its, and  the  letters  telling  her  of  her  grand- 
child's illness  had  not  reached  her  in  the  slow- 
delaying  cross-country  posts  of  those  days.  So 
she  was  sent  for ;  by  a  man  riding  express,  as  a 
quicker  and  sm'er  means  than  the  post. 

Meanwhile,  the  nurses,  exhausted  by  their 
watching,  found  the  care  of  liftle  Mary  by  day 
quite  enough.  Madam's  maid  sat  up  with  Bes- 
sy for  a  night  or  two ;  Duke  striding  in  from 
time  to  time  through  the  dark  hours  to  look  at 
the  white  motionless  face,  which  would  have 
seemed  like  the  face  of  one  dead,  but  for  the 
long-quivering  sighs  that  came  up  from  the  over- 
laden heart.  The  doctor  tried  his  drugs,  in 
vain,  and  then  he  tried  again.  This  night,  Vic- 
torine at  her  own  earnest  request,  sat  up  ins^tead 
of  the  maid.  As  usual,  towards  midnight,  Duke 
came  stealing  in  with  shaded  light.  "Hush  I" 
said  Victorine,  her  finger  on  her  lips.  "She 
sleeps  at  last."  Morning  dawned  faint  and  pale, 
and  still  she  slept.  The  doctor  came,  and  stole 
in  on  tip-toe,  rejoicing  in  the  effect  of  his  drugs. 
They  all  stood  round  the  bed ;  Duke,  Theresa, 
Victorine.  Suddenly  the  doctor  —  a  strange 
change  upon  him,  a  strange  fear  in  his  face — 
felt  the  patient's  pulse,  put  his  ear  to  her  open 
lips,  called  for  a  glass — a  feather.  The  mirror 
was  not  dimmed,  the  delicate  fibres  stirred  not. 
Bessy  was  dead. 

1  pass  rapidly  over  many  months.  Theresa 
was  again  overwhelmed  with  grief,  or  rather,  I 
should  say,  remorse;  for  now  that  Bessy  was 
gone,  and  buried  out  of  sight,  all  her  innocent 
virtues,  all  her  feminine  homeliness,  came  vivid- 
ly into  Theresa's  mind — not  as  wearisome,  but 
as  admirable,  qualities  of  which  she  had  been 
too  blind  to  perceive  the  value.  Bessy  had  been 
her  own  old  companion  too,  in  the  happy  days 
of  childhood,  and  of  innocence.  Theresa  rather 
shunned  than  sought  Duke's  company  now.  She 
remained  at  the  castle,  it  is  true,  and  Madam 
Hawtrey,  as  Theresa's  only  condition  of  contin- 
uing where  she  was,  came  to  live  under  the  same 
roof.  Duke  felt  his  wife's  death  deeply,  but  rea- 
sonably, as  became  his  character.  He  was  per- 
plexed by  Theresa's  bursts  of  grief,  knowing,  as 
he  dimly  did,  that  she  and  Bessy  had  not  lived 
together  in  perfect  harmony.  But  lie  was  much 
in  London  now ;  a  rising  statesman  ;  and  when, 
in  autumn,  he  spent  some  time  at  the  castle,  he 
was  full  of  admiration  for  the  strangely  patient 
way  in  which  Theresa  behaved  towards  the  old 
lady.  It  seemed  to  Duke  that  in  his  absence 
Madam  Hawtrey  had  assumed  absolute  power  in 
his  household,  and  that  the  high-spirited  The- 
resa submitted  to  her  fantasies  with  even  more 
docility  than  her  own  daughter  would  have  done. 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


23 


Towards  Mary,  Theresa  was  always  kind  and 
indulgent. 

Another  autumn  came ;  and  before  it  went, 
old  ties  were  renewed,  and  Theresa  was  pledged 
to  become  her  cousin's  wife. 

There  were  two  people  strongly  affected  by 
this  news  when  it  was  promulgated  ;  one — and 
this  was  natural  under  the  circumstances — was 
Madam  Hawtrey ;  who  chose  to  resent  tiie  mar- 
riage as  a  deep  personal  offense  to  herself  as 
well  as  to  her  daughter's  memory,  and  who 
sternly  rejecting  all  Theresa's  entreaties,  and 
Duke's  invitation  to  continue  her  residence  at 
the  castle,  went  off  into  lodgings  in  the  village. 
The  other  pei-son  strongly  affected  by  the  news 
was  Victorine. 

From  being  a  dry  active  energetic  middle-aged 
woman,  she  now,  at  the  time  of  Theresa's  en- 
gagement, sank  into  the  passive  languor  of  ad- 
vanced life.  It  seemed  as  if  she  felt  no  more 
need  of  effort,  or  strain,  or  exertion.  She  sought 
solitude ;  liked  nothing  better  than  to  sit  in  her 
room  adjoining  Theresa's  dressing-room,  some- 
times sunk  in  a  reverie,  sortietimes  employed  on 
an  intricate  piece  of  knitting  with  almost  spas- 
modic activity.  But  wherever  Theresa  went, 
thither  would  Victorine  go.  Theresa  had  im- 
agined that  her  old  nurse  would  prefer  being  left 
at  the  castle,  in  the  soothing  tranquillity  of  the 
country,  to  accompanying  her  and  her  husband 
to  the  house  in  Grosvenor-square,  which  they  had 
taken  for  the  parliamentary  season.  But  the 
mere  offer  of  a  choice  seemed  to  irritate  Victo- 
rine inexpressibly.  She  looked  upon  the  pro- 
posal as  a  sign  that  Theresa  considered  her  as 
superannuated — that  her  nursling  was  weary  of 
her,  and  wished  to  supplant  her  services  by  those 
of  a  younger  maid.  It  seemed  impossible  to 
dislodge  this  idea  when  it  had  once  entered  into 
her  head,  and  it  led  to  frequent  bursts  of  temper, 
in  which  she  violently  upbraided  Theresa  for  her 
ingratitude  towards  so  faithful  a  follower. 

One  day,  Victorine  went  a  little  further  in 
her  expressions  than  usual,  and  Theresa,  usual- 
ly so  forbearing  towards  her,  turned  at  last. 
"Beally,  Victorine  I"  she  said,  "this  is  misery 
to  both  of  us.  You  say  you  never  feel  so  wicked 
as  when  I  am  near  you ;  that  my  ingratitude  is 
such  as  would  be  disowned  by  fiends ;  what  can 
I,  what  must  I  do  ?  You  say  you  are  never  so 
unhappy  as  when  you  are  near  me ;  must  we, 
then,  part  ?    Would  that  be  for  your  happiness?" 

"  And  is  that  what  it  has  come  to !"  exclaimed 
Victorine.  "In  my  country  they  reckon  a  build- 
ing secure  against  wind  and  storm  and  all  the 
ravages  of  time,  if  the  first  mortar  used  has  been 
tempered  with  human  blood.  But  not  even  our 
joint  secret,  though  it  was  tempered  well  with 
blood,  can  hold  our  lives  together!  How  much 
less  all  the  care,  all  the  love,  that  I  lavished  upon 
you  in  the  days  of  my  youth  and  strength !" 

Theresa  came  close  to  the  chair  in  which  Vic- 
torine was  seated.  She  took  hold  of  her  hand 
and  held  it  fast  in  her  own.  "Speak  Victor- 
ine," said  she.  hoarsely,  "and  tell  me  what 
you  mean.  What  is  our  joint  secret?  And 
what  do  you  mean  by  its  being  a  secret  of  blood? 
Speak  out.     I  will  know." 

"As  if  you  do  not  know !"  replied  Victorine, 
harshly.  "You  don't  remember  my  visits  to 
Bianconi,  the  Italian  chemist  in  the  Marais, 
long  ago?''     She  looked  into  Theresa's  face,  to 


see  if  her  words  had  suggested  any  deeper  mean- 
ing than  met  the  ear.  No ;  Theresa's  look  was 
stern,  but  free  and  innocent. 

"You  told  me  you  went  there  to  learn  the 
composition  of  certain  unguents,  and  cosmetics, 
and  domestic  medicines." 

"Ay,  and  paid  high  for  my  knowledge,  too," 
said  Victorine,  with  a  low  chuckle.  "  I  learned 
more  than  you  have  mentioned,  my  lady  count- 
ess. I  learnt  the  secret  nature  of  many  drugs — 
tQ  speak  plainly,  I  learnt  the  art  of  poisoning. 
And,"  suddenly  standing  up,  "it  was  for  your 
sake  I  learnt  it.  For  your  service — you — wh'' 
would  fain  cast  me  off  in  my  old  age.    For  you !'' 

Theresa  blanched  to  a  deadly  white.  But  she 
tried  to  move  neither  feature  nor  limb,  nor  to 
avert  her  eyes  for  one  moment  from  the  eyes 
that  defied  her.     "For  my  service,  Victorine?" 

"Yes!  The  quieting  draught  was  all  ready 
for  your  husband  when  they  brought  him  home 
dead." 

"Thank  Grod  his  death  does  not  lie  at  your 
door ! " 

"Thank  God?"  mocked  Victorine.  "The 
wish  for  his  death  does  lie  at  your  door ;  and 
the  intent  to  rid  you  of  him  does  lie  at  my  door. 
And  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it.  Not  I !  It  was 
not  for  myself  I  would  have  done  it,  but  because 
you  suffered  so.  He  had  struck  you,  whom  I 
had  nursed  on  my  breast," 

"Oh,  Victorine!"  said  Theresa,  with  a  shud- 
der. "  Those  days  are  past.  Do  not  let  us  re- 
cal  them.  I  was  so  wicked  because  I  was  so 
miserable ;  and  now  I  am  so  happy,  so  inex- 
pressibly happy,  that — do  let  me  try  to  make 
you  happy  too ! " 

"  You  ought  to  try,"  said  Victorine,  not  yet 
pacified ;  "  can't  you  see  how  the  incomplete 
action  once  stopped  by  Fate  was  tried  again, 
and  with  success ;  and  how  you  are  now  reaping 
the  benefit  of  my  sin,  if  sin  it  was?" 

"  Victorine !  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean !" 
But  some  terror  must  have  come  over  her,  she 
so  trembled  and  so  shivered. 

"Do  you  not  indeed!  Madame  Brownlow, 
the  country  girl  from  Crowley  Parsonage,  need- 
ed sleep,  and  would  fain  forget  the  little  child's 
death  that  was  pressing  on  her  brain.  I  helped 
the  doctor  to  his  end.  She  sleeps  now,  and  she 
has  met  her  baby  before  this,  if  priests'  tales 
are  true.  And  you,  my  beauty,  my  queen,  you 
reign  in  her  stead !  Don't  treat  the  i)oor  Vic- 
torine as  if  she  were  mad,  and  speaking  in  her 
madness.  I  have  heard  of  tricks  like  tl.at  being 
played,  when  the  crime  was  done,  and  the  crim- 
inal of  use  no  longer." 

That  evening,  Duke  was  surprised  by  his  wife's 
entreaty  and  petition  that  she  might  leave  him, 
and  return  with  Victorine  and  her  other  per- 
sonal servants  to  the  seclusion  of  Crowley  Castle. 
She,  the  great  London  toast,  the  powerful  en- 
chantress of  society,  and  most  of  all,  the  darling 
wife  and  true  companion,  with  this  sudden  fancy 
for  this  complete  retirement,  and  for  leaving  her 
hiisband  when  he  was  first  fully  entering  into  the 
comprehension  of  all  that  a  wife  might  be!  Was 
it  ill  health  ?  Only  last  night  she  had  been  in 
dazzling  beauty,  in  brilliant  spirits ;  this  morn- 
ing only,  she  had  been  so  merry  and  tender. 
But  Theresa  denied  that  she  was  in  any  way  in- 
disposed ;  and  seemed  suddenly  so  unwilling  to 
speak  of  herself,  and  so  much  depressed,  that 


24 


SmS.  LIERIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


Duke  saw  nothing  for  it  but  to  grant  her  wish 
and  let  her  go.  He  missed  her  terribly.  No 
more  pleasant  tete-a-tete  breakfasts,  enlivened 
by  her  sense  and  wit,  and  cheered  by  her  pretty 
caressing  ways.  No  gentle  secretary  now,  to  sit 
by  his  side  through  long  long  hours,  never  weary. 
When  he  went  into  society,  he  no  longer  found 
his  appearance  watched  and  waited  for  by  the 
loveliest  woman  there.  When  he  came  home 
from  the  House  at  night,  there  was  no  one  to 
take  an  interest  in  his  speeches,  to  be  indignant 
at  all  that  annoyed  him,  and  charmed  and  proud 
of  all  the  admiration  he  had  won.  He  longed 
for  the  time  to  come  when  he  would  be  able  to 
go  down  for  a  day  or  two  to  see  his  wife ;  for 
her  letters  appeared  to  him  dull  and  flat  after 
her  bright  companionship.  No  wonder  that  her 
letters  came  out  of  a  heavy  heart,  knowing  what 
she  knew. 

She  scarcely  dared  to  go  near  Victorine,  whose 
moods  were  becoming  as  variable  as  though  she 
were  indeed  the  mad  woman  she  had  tauntingly 
defied  Theresa  to  call  her.  At  times  she  was  mis- 
erable because  Theresa  looked  so  ill,  and  seem- 
ed so  deeply  unhappy.  At  other  times  she  was 
jealous  because  she  fancied  Theresa  shrank  from 
her  and  avoided  her.  So,  wearing  her  life  out 
with  passion,  Victoriue's  health  grew  daily  worse 
and  worse  during  that  summer. 

Theresa's  only  comfort  seemed  to  be  little 
Mary's  society.  She  seemed  as  though  she  could 
not  lavish  love  enough  upon  the  motherless  child, 
who  repaid  Theresa's  affection  with  all  the  pret- 
ty demonst"^tiveness  of  her  age.  She  would 
carry  the  little  three-year-old  maiden  in  her 
arras  when  she  went  to  see  Victorine,  or  would 
have  Mary  playing  about  in  her  dressing-room, 
if  the  old  Frenchwoman,  for  some  jealous  freak, 
would  come  and  arrange  her  lady's  hair  with  her 
trembling  hands.  To  avoid  giving  offence  to 
Victorine,  Theresa  engaged  no  other  maid ;  to 
sliun  over-much  or  over-frank  conversation  with 
Victorine,  she  always  had  little  Mary  with  her 
when  there  was  a  chance  of  the  French  waiting- 
maid  coming  in.  For,  the  presence  of  the  child 
was  a  holy  restraint  even  on  Victorine's  tongue ; 
she  would  sometimes  check  her  fierce  temper,  to 
caress  the  little  creature  playing  at  her  knees ; 
and  would  only  dart  a  covert  bitter  sting  at 
Theresa  under  the  guise  of  a  warning  against 
ingratitude,  to  Mary. 

Theresa  drooped  and  drooped  in  this  di-ead- 
ful  life.  She  sought  out  Madam  Hawtrey,  and 
prayed  her  to  come  on  a  long  visit  to  the  castle. 
She  was  lonely,  she  said,  asking  for  madam's 
comjjany  as  a  favour  to  herself.  Madam  Haw- 
trey was  diflicult  to  persuade;  but  the  more 
she  resisted,  the  more  Theresa  entreated ;  and 
when  once  madam  was  at  the  castle,  her  own 
daughter  had  never  been  so  dutiful,  so  bumble 
a  slave  to  her  slightest  fancy  as  was  the  proud 
Theresa  now. 

Yet,  for  all  this,  the  lady  of  the  castle  drooped 
and  drooped,  and  when  Duke  came  down  to  see 
his  darling  he  was  in  utter  dismay  at  her  looks. 
Yet  she  said  she  was  well  enough,  only  tired. 
If  she  had  anything  more  upon  her  mind,  she 
refused  him  her  confidence.  He  watched  her 
narrowly,  trying  to  forestal  her  smallest  desires. 
He  saw  her  tender  affection  for  Mary,  and 
thought  he  had  never  seen  so  lovely  and  tender 
a  mother  to  another  woman's  child.     He  won- 


dered at  her  patience  with  Jladam  Hawtrey,  re- 
membering how  often  his  own  stock  hadbeen 
exhausted  by  his  mother-in-law,  and  how  the 
brilliant  Theresa  had  formerly  scouted  and  flout- 
ed at  the  vicar's  wife.  With  all  this  renewed 
sense  of  his  darling's  virtues  and  charms,  the 
idea  of  losing  her  was  too  terrible  to  bear. 

He  would  listen  to  no  pleas,  to  no  objections. 
Before  he  returned  to  town,  where  his  presence 
was  a  political  necessity,  he  sought  the  best 
medical  advice  that  could  be  had  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. The  doctors  came ;  they  could  make 
but  little  out  of  Theresa,  if  her  vehement  asser- 
tion were  true  that  she  had  nothing  on  her  mind. 
Nothing. 

"Humour  him  at  least,  my  dear  lady!"  said 
the  doctor,  who  had  known  Theresa  from  her 
infancy,  but  who,  living  at  the  distant  county 
town,  was  only  called  in  on  the  Olympian  occa- 
sions of  great  state  illnesses.  "Humour  your 
husband,  and  perhaps  do  yourself  some  good 
too,  by  consenting  to  his  desire  that  you  should 
have  change  of  air.  Brighthelmstone.is  a  quiet 
village  by  the  sea-side.  Consent,  like  a  gracious 
lady,  to  go  there  for  a  few  weeks." 

So,  Theresa,  worn  out  with  opposition,  con- 
sented, and  Duke  made  all  the  arrangements 
for  taking  her,  and  little  Mary,  and  the  neces- 
sary suite  of  servants,  to  Brighton,  as  we  call  it 
now.  He  resolved  in  his  own  mind  that  The- 
resa's personal  attendant  should  be  some  woman 
young  enough  to  watch  and  wait  upon  her  mis- 
tress, and  not  Victorine,  to  whom  Theresa  was 
in  reality  a  servant.  But  of  this  plan,  neither 
Theresa  nor  Victorine  knew  anything  until  the 
former  was  in  the  carriage  with  her  husband 
some  miles  distant  from  the  castle.  Then  he,  a 
little  exultant  in  the  good  management  by  which 
he  supposed  he  had  spared  his  wife  the  pain  and 
trouble  of  decision,  told  her  that  Victorine  was 
left  behind,  and  that  a  new  accomplished  Lon- 
don maid  would  await  her  at  her  journey's  end. 

Theresa  only  exclaimed  "  O !  What  will  Vic- 
torine say?"  and  covered  her  face,  and>6at  shiv- 
ering and  speechless. 

What  Victorine  did  say,  when  she  found  out 
the  trick,  as  ;  '.le  esteemed  it,  that  hadbeen  play- 
ed upon  her,  was  too  terrible  to  repeat.  She 
lashed  hei-self  up  into  an  ungovcrned  passion ; 
and  then  became  so  really  and  seriously  ill  that 
the  servants  went  to  fetch  Madam  Hawtrey  in 
terror  and  dismay.  But  when  that  lady  came, 
Victorine  shut  her  eyes,  and  refused  to  look  at 
her.  "She  has  got  her  daughter  in  her  hand  I 
I  will  not  look!"  Shaking  all  the  time  she  ut- 
tered these  awe-stricken  words,  as  if  she  were 
in  an  ague-fit.  "Bring  the  countess  back  to 
me.  Let  her  face  the  dead  woman  standing  there. 
I  will  not  do  it.  They  wanted  her  to  sleep — and 
so  dW  the  countess,  that  she  might  step  into  her 
la«-ful  place.  Theresa,  Theresa,  where  are  you? 
You  tempted  me.  What  1  did,  I  did  in  your 
service.  And  you  have  gone  away,  and  left  me 
alone  with  the  dead  woman !  It  was  the  same 
drug  as  the  doctor  gave,  after  all — only  he  gave 
little,  and  I  gave  much.  My  lady  the  countess 
spent  her  money  well  when  she  sent  me  to  the 
old  Italian  to  learn  his  trade.  Lotions  for  the 
complexion,  and  a  discriminating  use  of  poison- 
ous drugs.  I  discriminated,  and  Theresa  profit- 
ed ;  and  now  slic  is  his  wife,  and  has  left  me 
here  alone  with  the   dead  woman.     Theresa, 


MRS.  LIEEIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


25 


Theresa,  come  back  and  save  me  from  the  dead 
woman !" 

Madam  Ilawtrey  stood  by,  horror-stricken. 
"Fetch  the  vicar,"  said  she,  under  her  breath, 
to  a  servant. 

"  Tlie  vilhij^e  doctor  is  coming,"  said  some  one 
near.     " How  she  raves !     Is  it  delirium ?' 

"It  is  no  delirium,"  said  Bessy's  mother. 
"Would  to  Heaven  it  were!" 

Theresa  had  a  happy  day  with  her  husband 
at  Brightlielmstone  before  he  set  off  on  his  re- 
turn to  London.  She  watched  him  riding  away, 
.his  servant  following  with  his  portmanteau.  Oft- 
en and  often  did  Duke  look  back  at  the  figure 
of  his  wife,  waving  her  handkerchief,  till  a  turn 
of  the  road  hid  her  from  his  sight.  He  had  to 
pass  through  a  little  village  not  ten  miles  from 
his  home,  and  there  a  servant,  with  his  letters 
and  further  luggage,  was  to  await  hira.  There 
he  found  a  mysterious,  imperative  note,  requir- 
ing his  immediate  presence  at  Crowley  Castle. 
Something  in  the  awe-stricken  face  of  the  serv- 
ant from  the  castle,  led  Duke  to  question  hira. 
But  all  he  could  say  was,  that  Victorine  lay  dy- 
ing, and  that  Madam  Hawtrey  had  said  that 
after  that  letter  the  master  was  sure  to  return, 
and  so  would  need  no  luggage.  Something 
lurked  behind,  evidently.  Duke  rode  home  at 
speed.  The  vicar  was  looking  out  for  him. 
".My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  relapsing  into  the  old 
relations  of  tutor  and  pupil,  "prepare  yourself.'' 

"What  for?"  said  Duke,  abruptly;  for  the 
being  told  to  prepare  himself,  without  being 
told  for  what,  irritated  him  in  his  present  mood. 
"Victorine  is  dead?" 

"No!  She  says  she  will  not  die  until  she 
has  seen  you,  and  got  you  to  forgive  her,  if 
Madam  Hawtrey  will  not.  But  first  read  this  : 
it  is  a  terrible  confession,  made  by  her  before 
me,  a  magistrate,  believing  herself  to  be  on  the 
point  of  death  I" 

Duke  read  the  paper^containing  little  more 
in  point  of  detail  tlian  I  have  already  given — 
the  horrible  words  taken  dov.n  in  the  short-hand 
in  which  the  vicar  used  to  write  his  mild  prosy 
sermons :  his  pupil  knew  the  character  of  old. 
Duke  read  it  twice.  Then  he  said :  "  She  is 
raving,  poor  creature!"  But  for  all  that,  his 
heart's  blood  ran  cold,  and  he  would  fain  not 
have  faced  the  woman,  but  would  rather  have 
remained  in  doubt  to  his  dying  da)\ 

He  went  up  the  stairs  three  steps  at  a  time, 
and  then  turned  and  faced  the  vicar,  witli  a  look 
like  the  stern  calmness  of  death.  "I  wish  to 
see  her  alone."  He  turned  out  all  the  watching 
women,  and  then  he  went  to  the  bedside  where 
Victorine  sat,  half  propped  up  with  pillows, 
watching  all  his  doings  and  his  looks,  with  her 
hollow  awful  eyes.  "  Now,  Victorine,  I  will 
read  this  paper  aloud  to  you.  Perhaps  your 
mind  has  been  wandering ;  but  you  understand 
me  now?"  A  feeble  murmur  of  assent  met  his 
listening  ear.  "If  any  statement  in  this  paper 
be  not  true,  make  me  a  sign.  Hold  up  your 
hand — for  God's  sake  hold  up  your  hand.  And 
if  you  can  do  it  with  truth  in  this,  your  hour  of 
dying.  Lord  have  mercy  upon  you ;  but  if  you 
cannot  hold  up  your  hand,  then  Lord  have  mer- 
cy upon  me  !" 

'  He  read  the  paper  slowly ;  clause  by  clause 
he  read  the  paper.  No  sign  ;  no  uplifted  hand. 
At  the  end  she  spoke,  and  he  bent  his  head  to 


listen.  "  The  Countess — Theresa  you  know — 
she  who  has  left  me  to  die  alone — she" — then 
mortal  strength  failed,  and  Duke  was  left  alone 
in  the  chamber  of  death. 

He  stayed  in  the  chamber  many  minutes, 
quite  still.  Then  he  left  the  room,  and  said  to 
the  first  domestic  he  could  find,  "The  woman 
is  dead.  See  that  she  is  attended  to."  But  he 
went  to  the  vicar,  and  had  a  long  long  talk  with 
him.  He  sent  a  confidential  servant  for  little 
Mary — on  some  pretext,  hardly  careful,  or  plaus- 
ible enough ;  but  his  mood  was  desperate,  and 
he  seemed  to  forget  almost  everything  but  Bes- 
sy, his  first  wife,  his  innocent  girlish  bride. 

Theresa  could  ill  spare  her  little  darling,  and 
was  perplexed  by  the  summons ;  but  an  expla- 
nation of  it  was  to  come  in  a  day  or  two.  It 
came. 

"Victorine  is  dead;  I  need  say  no  more. 
She  could  not  carry  her  awful  secret  into  the 
next  world,  but  told  all.  I  can  think  of  nothing 
but  my  poor  Bessy,  delivered  over  to  thecruelty 
of  such  a  woman.  And  you,  Theresa,  I  leave 
you  to  your  conscience,  for  you  have  slept  in  my 
bosom.  Henceforward  I  am  a  stranger  to  you. 
By  the  time  you  receive  this,  I,  and  my  child, 
and  that  poor  murdered  girl's  mother,  will  have 
left  England.  What  will  be  our  next  step  I 
know  not.  My  agent  will  do  for  you  what  you 
need." 

Theresa  sprang  up  and  rang  her  bell  with  mad 
haste.  "Get  me  a  horse !"  she  cried,  "  and  bid 
William  be  ready  to  ride  with  me  for  his  life — 
for  my  life — along  the  coast,  to  Dover !" 

They  rode  and  they  galloped  through  the 
night,  scarcely  staying  to  bait  their  horses.  But 
when  they  came  to  Dover,  they  looked  out  to 
sea  upon  the  white  sails  that  bore  Duke  and  his 
child  away.  Theresa  was  too  late,  and  it  broke 
her  heart.  She  lies  buried  in  Dover  church- 
yard. After  long  years  Duke  returned  to  En- 
gland ;  but  his  place  in  parliament  knew  him  no 
more,  and  his  daughter's  husband  sold  Crowley 
Castle  to  a  sti-anger. 


III. 

HOW  TITE   8ir»E-nOOM   WAS   ATTENDED  BT  A 
DQCTOR. 

How  the  Doctor  found  his  way  into  our  so- 
ciety, none  of  us  can  tell.  It  did  not  occur  to 
us  to  inquire  into  the  matter  at  the  time,  and 
now  the  point  is  lost  in  the  dim  obscurity  of  the 
past.  We  only  know  that  he  appeared  suddenly 
and  mysteriously.  It  was  shortly  after  we  had 
formed  our  Mutual  Admiration  Society,  in  this 
very  room  in  Mrs.  Lirriper's  Lodgings.  We 
were  discussing  things  in  general  in  our  usual 
amiable  way,  admiring  poets,  worshipping  he- 
roes, and  taking  all  men  and  all  things  for  what 
they  seemed.  We  were  young  and  ingenuous, 
pleased  with  our  own  ideas,  and  with  each  oth- 
er's ;  full  of  belief  and  trust  in  all  things  good 
and  noble,  and  with  no  hatred,  save  for  what 
was  false,  and  base,  and  mean.  In  this  spirit 
we  were  commenting  with  indignation  upon  a 
new  heresy  with  regard  to  the  age  of  the  world, 
when  a  strange  voice  broke  in  upon  our  conver- 
sation. 

"I  beg  your  pardon;  you  are  wrong.    The 


26 


MRS.  LIHRIPERS  LODGINGS. 


ape  of  the  Morld  is  exactly  three  millions  eight 
hundred  and  ninety-seven  thousand  four  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  years,  eight  months,  four- 
teen days,  nine  hours,  thirty-tive  minutes,  and 
seventeen  seconds." 

At  the  first  sound  of  this  mysterious  voice  we 
all  looked  up,  and  perceived  standing  on  the 
heartli-rug  before  the  tire  by  which  you  sit,  Ma- 
jor, a  little  closely-knit,  middle-aged  man,  dress- 
ed in  black.  He  had  a  hooked  nose,  piercing 
black  eyes,  and  a  grizzled  beard,  and  his  head 
was  covered  with  a  shock  of  crisp  dark  hair. 
Our  first  impulse  was  to  resent  the  stranger's 
interference  as  an  impertinence,  and  to  demand 
what  business  he  had  in  that  room  in  Mrs.  Lir- 
riper's  house,  sacred  to  the  social  meetings  of 
the  Mutual  Admiration  Society  ?  But  we  no 
sooner  set  eyes  upon  him  than  the  impulse  was 
checked,  and  we  remained  for  a  minute  or  so 
gazing  upon  the  stranger  in  silence.  We  saw 
at  a  glance  that  he  was  no  mere  meddling  fool. 
He  was  considerably  older  than  any  of  us  there 
present,  his  face  beamed  with  intelligence,  his 
eyes  sparkled  with  humour,  and  his  whole  ex- 
pression was  that  of  a  man  confident  of  mental 
strength  and  superiority.  The  look  on  his  face 
seemed  to  imply  that  he  had  reckoned  us  all  up 
in  an  instant.  So  much  were  we  impressed  by 
|he  stranger's  apijearance,  that  we  quite  forgot 
the  queries  which  had  naturally  occurred  to  us 
when  he  interrupted  our  conversation  :  Who  are 
you  ?  Where  do  you  belong  to  ?  How  did  you 
come  here  ?  It  was  allowable  for  a  member  of 
the  society  to  introduce  a  friend ;  but  none  of  us 
had  introduced  him,  and  we  were  the  only  mem- 
bers in  the  room.  None  of  us  had  seen  him 
enter,  nor  had  we  been  conscious  of  his  presence 
until  we  heard  his  voice.  On  comparing  notes 
afterwards,  it  was  found  that  the  same  thought 
had  flitted  across  all  our  minds.  Had  he  come 
down  the  chimney?  Or  up  through  the  floor? 
But  at  the  time,  as  we  saw  no  smoke  and  smelt 
no  brimstone,  we  dismissed  the  suspicion  for  the 
more  natural  explanation  that  some  member 
had  introduced  him,  and  had  gone  away,  leav- 
ing him  there.  I  was  mentally  framing  a  civil 
question  with  the  view  of  elucidating  this  point, 
when  the  stranger,  who  spoke  with  a  foreign  ac- 
cent, again  addressed  us. 

♦'I  trust,"  he  said,  "I  am  not  intruding  upon 
your  society :  but  the  subject  of  your  discussion 
is  one  that  I  have  studied  deeply,  and  I  was  be- 
trayed into  a  remark  by — by  my  enthusiasm  :  I 
beg  you  will  pardon  me." 

He  said  this  so  aflFably,  and  with  so  much  dig- 
nified politeness  of  an  elderly  kind,  that  we  were 
all  disarmed,  and  protested,  in  a  body,  that  there 
was  no  occasion  for  any  apology.  And  it  fol- 
lowed upon  this,  in  some  sort  of  insensible  way, 
that  the  stranger  came  and  took  a  seat  among 
us,  and  spent  the  evening  with  us,  proving  a 
match  for  us  in  the  airy  gaiety  of  our  discus- 
sions, and  more  than  a  match  for  us  in  all  kinds 
of  knowledge.  \Ve  were  all  charmed  with  the 
stranger,  and  he  appeared  to  be  highly  pleased 
with  us.  When  he  went  away  he  shook  hands 
with  us  with  marked  cordiality  and  warmth, 
and  left  us  his  card.     It  bore  this  inscription  : 

Doctor  Goliath,  Pu.D, 

After  this,  the  doctor  regularly  frequented  our 
society,  and  we  took  his  coming  as  a  matter  of 


course ;  being  quite  content  to  accept  his  great 
learning  and  numerous  accomplishments  as  a 
certificate  of  his  eligibility  for  membership  in 
our  fraternity.  It  was  no  wonder  that  we  came 
to  look  upon  the  doctor  as  a  great  i)ersonage. 
His  fund  of  knowledge  was  inexhaustible.  He 
seemed  to  know  everything — not  generally  and 
in  a  superficial  manner — but  particularly  and  mi- 
nutely. It  was  not,  however,  by  making  a  pa- 
rade of  his  knowledge  that  he  gave  us  this  im- 
pression. He  let  it  out  incidcntly,  as  occasion 
required.  If  language  were  the  topic,  the  doc- 
tor, by  a  few  off'-hand  remarks,  made  it  plain  to 
us  that  he  was  acquainted  with  almost  every 
language  under  the  sun.  He  spoke  English 
with  an  accent  which  partook  of  the  character 
of  almost  every  modern  tongue.  If  law  came 
np,  he  could  discourse  of  codes  and  judgments 
with  the  utmost  familiarity,  citing  act,  chapter, 
and  section,  as  if  the  whole  study  of  his  life  had 
been  law.  So  with  politics,  history,  geology, 
chemistiy,  mechanics,  and  even  medicine.  No- 
thing came  amiss  to  Doctor  Goliath.  He  was 
an  animated  Cyclopt^dia  of  universal  knowledge. 
But  there  was  nothing  of  the  pedant  about  him. 
He  treated  his  learning  as  bagatelle ;  he  threw 
oif  his  knowledge  as  other  people  throw  oft' 
jokes:  he  was  only  serious  when  he  mixed  a 
salad,  brewed  a  bowl  of  punch,  or  played  a" 
game  of  piquet.  He  was  not  at  all  proud  of 
being  able  to  translate  the  Ratcatcher's  Daugh- 
ter into  six  languages,  including  Greek  and  Ara- 
bic ;  but  he  believed  he  was  the  only  man  on 
the  face  of  the  earth  who  knew  the  exact  pro- 
portions of  oil  and  vinegar  requisite  for  the 
proper  mixture  of  a  potato-salad.  It  was  im- 
possible to  resist  the  spell  of  Doctor  Goliath's 
wonderful  character.  He  was  learned  in  the 
highest  degree ;  yet  he  had  all  the  reckless  jol- 
lity of  a  schoolboy,  and  could  talk  nonsense 
and  make  sport  of  wisdom  and  philosophy  bet- 
ter than  any  of  us.  He  took  our  society  by 
storm  ;  he  became  an  oracle ;  we  quoted  him  as 
an  authority,  and  spoke  of  him  as  the  doctor,  as 
if  there  were  no  other  doctor  on  the  face  of  the 
earth. 

Shortly  before  the  doctor's  appearance  among 
us,  we,  the  members  of  the  Mutual  Admiration 
Society,  had  sworn  eternal  friendship.  We  had 
vowed  ever  to  love  each  other,  ever  to  believe 
in  each  other,  ever  to  be  true  and  just  and  kind- 
ly towards  each  other,  and  never  to  be  estranged 
one  from  another,  either  by  prosperity  or  ad- 
versity. As  a  sign  and  symbol  of  our  brother- 
hood, we  had  agreed  to  call  each  other  by  fa- 
miliar and  aff"ectionate  abbreviations  of  our  chris- 
tian names ;  and,  in  pursuance  of  this  amiable 
scheme,  we  had  arranged  to  present  each  other 
with  loving  cups.  As  we  were  a  society  of  little 
wealth,  except  in  the  matter  of  loving-kindness 
and  mutual  admiration,  it  was  resolved  that  the 
cups  should  be  fashioned  of  pewter,  of  the  meas- 
ure of  one  quart,  and  each  with  two  handles. 
The  order  was  given,  the  loving-cups  were  made, 
and  each  bore  an  inscription  in  this  Mise  :  "  To 
Tom  from  Sam,  Jack,  Will,  Ned,  Charley,  and 
HaiTv,  a  token  of  Friendship ;''  this  inscription 
being  only  varied  as  regarded  the  relative  posi- 
j  tions  of  donors  and  recipient.  The  cups  were 
all  ready,  and  nothing  remained  to  be  done  but 
I  to  pay  the  money  and  bring  them  away  from  the 
:  shop  of  our  Benvenuto  Cellini,  which  was  situ- 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


27 


ated  in  the  parish  of  St.  Martin's-in-the-Fields. 
A  deh\v,  however,  occurred,  owing  to  circum- 
stances which  I  need  not  particularise  further 
than  to  say,  that  they  were  circumstances  over 
which  we  had  no  control. 

This  delay,  owing  to  the  obduracy  of  these  un- 
controllable circumstances,  continued  for  some 
weeks,  when,  one  evening,  Tom  came  in  with  a 
large  brown  paper  parcel  under  his  ann.  It 
was  a  parcel  of  strange  and  unwonted  aspect. 

"Ha!  ha!"  cried  the  doctor,  "what  have  we 
here?  Say,  my  Tom,  is  it  something  to  eat, 
something  to  drink,  something  perchance  to 
smoke  ?  For  in  such  things  only  doth  ray  soul 
delight." 

"I  don't  believe  you  when  yon  say  that,  doc- 
tor," said  Tom,  quite  seriously;  for  Tom  had 
fallen  more  prostrate  than  any  of  us  before  the 
doctor's  great  character. 

"Not  believe  me?"  cried  the  doctor,  "I 
mean  it.  Man,  sir,  is  an  animal  whose  only 
misfortune  is,  that  he  is  endowed  with  the  ac- 
cursed power  of  thinking.  If  I  were  not  pos- 
sessed by  this  evil  spirit  of  Thought,  do  you 
know  what  I  would  do  ?" 

Tom  could  form  no  idea  what  he  would  do. 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  would  lie 
all  day  in  the  sun,  and  eat  potato-salad  out  of 
a  trough !" 

"What!  like  a  pig?"  Tom  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  like  a  pig,"  said  the  doctor.  "I  never 
see  a  pig  lying  on  clean  straw,  with  his  snout 
poked  into  a  delightful  mess  of  barley-meal  and 
cabbage-leaves,  but  I  become  frightfully  envi- 
ous !" 

"Oh,  doctor!"  we  all  exclaimed  in  chorus. 

"Fact.  I  say  to  myself,  How  much  better 
off,  how  much  happier,  is  this  pig  than  I !  To 
obtain  my  potato-salad,  without  which  life  would 
be  a  blank,  I  have  to  do  a  deed  my  soul  abhors. 
I  have  to  work.  The  pig  has  no  work  to  do 
for  that  troughful  of  barley-meal  and  cabbage- 
leaves.  Because  I  am  an  animal  endowed  with 
the  power  of  thought  and  reason,  I  was  sent  to 
school  and  taught  to  read.  See  what  misfor- 
tune, what  misery,  that  has  brought  upon  me! 
You  laugh,  but  am  I  not  driven  to  read  books, 
and  parliamentary  debates,  and  leading  arti- 
cles? I  was  induced  the  other  day  to  attend  a 
social  congress.  If  I  had  been  a  pig,  I  should 
not  have  had  to  endure  that." 

"Ah,  but,  doctor,"  said  Tom,  "the  pig  has 
no  better  part." 

The  doctor  burst  into  a  yell  of  exultation. 

"  Wiiat !  The  pig  no  better  part  ?  Ha !  ha ! 
Sir,  the  better  part  of  pig  is  pork.  The  butcher 
comes  to  me,  and  to  the  pig  alike ;  but  what 
remains  of  me  when  he  has  done  his  fell  work  ? 
You  put  me  in  a  box  and  screw  me  down,  and 
stow  me  away  out  of  sight ;  and  you  pretend  to 
grieve  for  me.  But  the  pig — you  eat  him,  and 
rejoice  in  earnest !  And  that  reminds  me  that 
T  shall  have  a  pork-chop  for  supper.  By  the 
way,  is  it  a  lettuce  you  have  in  that  paper  par- 
cel, Tom  ?" 

"It  is  not  a  lettuce,  doctor." 

"Not  a  lettuce!  Ha!  I  see  something  glit- 
ter—precious metal — gold?  no,  silver!  to  ob- 
tain wliich,  in  a  commensurate  quantity,  I  would 
commit  crimes — murder !" 

"Oil,  doctor,"  said  Tom,  "you  are  giving 
yourself  a  character  which  you  don't  deserve." 


"Am  I  ?"  said  the  doctor.  "You  don't  know 
me.  And  after  all,  what  is  murder?  Nothing. 
You  kill  two  or  three  of  your  fellow-creatures — 
a  dozen,  for  that  matter;  wh^t  then?  There 
are  plenty  more.  Do  you  know  what  is  the 
population  of  the  earth  ?  I  will  tell  you.  Ex- 
actly one  thousand  three  hundred  millions  eight 
hundred  and  ninety-niue  thousand  six  hundred 
and  twenty  souls.  How  many  murders  are  com- 
mitted in  the  course  of  a  year  do  you  imagine  ? 
You  think  only  those  you  read  of  in  the  news- 
papers. Bah !  An  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
subject  enables  me  to  inform  you  that  the  num- 
ber of  murdei-s  committed  in  Great  Britain  and 
Ireland,  and  the  Channel  Islands,  annually, 
amounts  to  fifteen  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
forty-five.  It  is  one  of  the  laws  of  nature  for 
keeping  down  the  population.  Every  man  who 
commits  a  murder  obeys  this  law." 

Tom's  hair  was  beginning  to  stand  on  end, 
for  the  doctor  said  all  this  with  a  terrible  fierce- 
ness of  manner.  His  strange  philosophy  was 
not  without  its  effect  upon  the  rest  of  us.  We 
had  been  accustomed  to  a  good  deal  of  freedom 
in  our  discussions,  but  we  had  never  ventured 
upon  anything  so  audacious  as  this. 

"Come,  Tom,"  said  the  doctor,  "unveil  your 
treasure,  and  let  me  see  if  it  be  worth  my  while 
lying  in  wait  for  you  in  the  dark  lanes  as  you  go 
home  to-night." 

"Well,  no,  it  isn't,  doctor,"  said  Tom,  "for 
the  article  is  only  of  pewter."  And  Tom  un- 
covered his  loving-cnp.  Circumstances  had  re- 
lented in  Tom's  case,  and  he  had  gone  and  paid 
for  his  own  loving-cup. 

" Pewter !"  said  the  doctor.  "Bah !  it  is  not 
worth  my  while ;  but  if  it  had  been  silver,  now, 

why  then  I  might "    And  the  doctor  put  on 

a  diabolical  expression,  that  seemed  to  signify 
highway  robbery  accompanied  with  violence,  and 
murder  followed  by  immediate  dissection.  Pres- 
ently the  doctor  noticed  the  inscription.  "Ha! 
ha!"  he  said,  "what  is  this?  An  inscription! 
'  To  Tom,  from  Sam,  Jack,  Will,  Ned,  Ciiarley, 
and  Harry — a  token  of  Friendship.'  Friend- 
ship? Ha!  ha!  'tis  but  a  name,  an  empty 
name,  a  mockery,  a  delusion,  and  a  snare.  I 
tell  you  there  is  no  such  thing  in  the  world." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  doctor!"  cried  Tom, 
looking  quite  hurt. 

"Ah,"  returned  the  doctor,  "yon  wiU  find  it 
out.  I  have  always  found  it  out ;  and  since  I 
formed  my  first  friendship  and  was  deceived — 
it  is  now — let  me  see  how  many  years? — one 
thousand  eight  hundred  and but  no  mat- 
ter." 

The  doctor  paused,  as  if  oppressed  with  pain- 
ful recollections. 

"Ned,"  said  Sam,  leaning  across  to  me,  "do 
you  know  what  I  think  the  doctor  is?" 

"  No,"  I  said. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "  hang'd  if  I  don't  think  he 
is  the  Wandering  Jew.     Look  at  his  boots !" 

I  looked  at  his  boots.  They  were  not  neat 
boots:  that  was  all  I  perceived  about  them. 

"Don't  you  observe,"  said  Sam,  "how  flat 
and  trodden  down  they  are?    The  doctor  has 
done  a  deal  of  walking  in  those  boots.     Mark 
their  strange  and  ancient  shape !     Look  at  the  , 
dust  uix)n  them — it  is  the  dust  of  centuries !" 

The  doctor  was  roaring  with  laughter  at  tlie 
idea  of  our  mutual  preat'ntation  scheme,  and 


28 


MKS.  LIREIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


was  calling  us  "innocents,"  and  Tom's  loving- 
cup  a  "mug." 

Tom  was  getting  red  in  the  face  and  looking 
ashamed.  In  fact,  we  were  all  looking  rather 
shcepL-ili ;  for  it  had  never  struck  us  until  now, 
how  silly  and  sentimental  we  all  were.  We 
said  nothing  to  the  doctor  about  the  six  other 
loving-cups  tBat  were  waiting  to  be  paid  for 
and  claimed;  and  when  Tom,  with  a  face  as 
red  as  a  coal,  covered  up  his  "  mug"  as  the  doc- 
tor called  it  and  put  it  away,  we  were  glad  to 
change  the  subject,  to  escape  from  our  embar- 
rassment. We  were  so  thoroughly  ashamed  of 
ourselves,  that  we  endeavoured  to  redeem  our 
characters  in  the  eyes  of  the  doctor,  by  plunging 
recklessly  into  any  depth  of  cynical  opinion  tiiat 
he  chose  to  sound.  And  the  doctor,  in  the 
course  of  time,  led  us  to  the  very  bottom  of  the 
pit  of  cynicism.  As  we  listened  to  him,  and 
held  converse  witli  him  day  after  day,  we  began 
to  see  how  very  green  and  unsophisticated  we 
had  all  been.  We  came  to  know  that  the  poets 
and  heroes  whom  we  had  worshipped  were  no- 
thing but  humbugs  and  pretenders ;  that  the 
great  statesmen  whom  we  had  believed  in  and 
admired,  were  blunderers  or  traitors;  that  the 
mighty  potentates  whose  power  and  sagacity  we 
had  extolled,  were  tyrannical  miscreants,  or 
puppets  in  the  hands  of  others ;  that  the  philan- 
thropists whom  all  men  praised,  were  conceited 
self-seeking  hypocrites ;  that  the  patriots  whose 
names  we  had  reverenced  in  common  with  all 
the  world,  were  scoundrels  of  the  deepest  dye. 
The  doctor's  influence  led  us  on  insensibly,  step 
by  step.  How  could  we  resist  it  ?  It  was  a  fas- 
cination. He  knew  everything,  could  prove  ev- 
erything, and  had  such  a  store  of  focts  that  we 
had  never  heard  of  in  support  of  his  conclusions, 
that  it  was  impossible,  with  our  limited  knowl- 
edge, to  withstand  him.  We  were  shocked  at 
first ;  but,  as  the  revolution  proceeded,  we  got 
used  to  the  sight  of  blood,  and  saw  the  heads  of 
our  heroes  fall  with  the  utmost  indifference.  At 
length  we  came  to  revel  in  it,  and  sought  for 
new  victims,  tiiat  we  might  demolish  them,  and 
do  our  despite  upon  them.  The  doctor  led  the 
way  more  boldly  as  we  advanced.  He  hinted 
darkly  at  crimes  in  which  he  had  had  a  hand, 
and  at  crimes  which  he  would  yet  commit  when 
the  opportunity  arrived.  Whenever  a  murder 
was  committed,  the  doctor  was  the  friend  and 
advocate  of  the  murderer,  and  vowed  fierce 
vengeance  against  the  judge  and  jury  who  con- 
demned him  to  be  hanged.  When  news  of  war 
and  disaster  came,  he  rubbed  his  hands  and 
gloated  over  it  with  glee,  because  he  had  proph- 
esied what  would  happen  through  the  imbecility 
and  treason  of  infamous  scoundrels  who  called 
themselves  statesmen  and  generals. 

From  a  Mutual  Admiration  Society  we  be- 
came a  society  of  iconoclasts.-  Tom,  and  Jack, 
and  Sam,  and  Harry,  and  the  rest  of  us,  who 
had  begun  by  swearing  eternal  friendship,  were 
now  bitter  disputants,  despising  each  other's 
mental  qualities,  calling  each  other  duffers  be- 
hind each  other's  backs,  and  laughing  all  the 
old  modest  pretensions  to  scorn.  The  loving- 
cups  had  faded  out  of  memory.  1  passed  the 
shop  of  our  Benvenuto  Cellini,  the  pcwterer, 
one  day,  and  saw  the  whole  six  exposed  in  the 
window  for  sale.  I  called  upon  Tom,  to  show 
him   an  article  demolishing  a  popular  author 


whom  we  had  once  idolised,  and  I  noticed  his 
loving-cup  stowed  away  under  the  table  with  a 
waste-paper-basket  and  a  spittoon.  It  had  grown 
dull  and  battered,  like  a  public-house  pot,  and 
was  filled  with  short  black  pipes,  and  matches, 
and  ends  of  cigars,  and  rubbish.  I  kicked  it 
playfully  with  my  foot,  and  laughed  ;  and  Tom 
blushed  and  put  it  away  out  of  sight. 

Our  society,  in  its  new  form,  prospered  ex- 
ceedingly. We  became  famous  for  the  freedom 
of  our  speech  and  the  audacity  of  our  opinions. 
Our  company  was  much  sought  after,  and  we 
were  proud  of  our  originality  and  independence. 
We  spent  all  our  leisure  hours  together,  and 
our  defiant  discussions  kept  us  in  a  constant 
state  of  mental  intoxication.  But  a  sober  mo- 
ment arrived. 

Tom  and  I  sat  together,  one  gloomy  daj-,  alone. 
We  were  solemn  and  mood\-,  and  smoked  in  si- 
lence.    At  length  Tom  said : 

"Ned,  I  passed  the  shop  to-day,  and  saw 
those  six  loving-cups  in  the  window." 

I  replied,  fretfully,  "Bother  the  loving-cups!" 

"No,"  said  Tom,  "I  have  other  thoughts  at 
this  present  moment;  I  have  had  them  often, 
but  have  smothered  them  —  smothered  them 
ruthlessly,  Ned ;  but  they  have  always  come  to 
life  again.  They  are  very  lively  to-night — ow- 
ing, perhaps,  to  the  fog,  or  the  state  of  my  liver, 
or  the  state  of  my  conscience — and  I  can't  smoth- 
er them." 

"  What  do  yon  mean,  Tom?" 

"  You  remember  when  we  ordered  the  cups  ?" 

"Yes." 

"The  doctor  came  among  ns  shortly  after- 
wards ?" 

"He  did." 

"  And  we  didn't  carry  out  our  intention." 

"  No.  You  pal  J  for  yours,  Tom,  and  brought 
it  away,  but  the  rest  are  still  unredeemed  pledges 
of  affection." 

"  Exactly,"  said  Tom  ;  "  and  that  was  owing 
to  the  doctor.  He  laughed  at  us.  He  made  us 
ashamed  of  ourselves.  He  made  me  ashamed 
of  myself.  But  I  had  paid  for  my  cnp,  and 
brought  it  away,  and  the  thing  was  done.  If  I 
had  not  done  it  when  I  did,  I  should  never  have 
done  it.     What  were  we  ashamed  of?" 

"  Silliness,"  I  said. 

"No,  kindliness  and  good  feeling,  which  we 
can't  have  too  much  of  in  this  short  journey." 

I  did  not  answer.    Tom  went  on. 

*'This  doctor  has  upset  ns  all.  He  has 
changed  our  nature.  He  has  turned  the  milk 
of  human  kindness  that  was  in  us,  sour.  He  is 
a  very  fascinating  person,  I  grant ;  but  who  is 
he?  None  of  us  know.  He  came  among  us 
mysteriously;  we  accepted  him  without  ques- 
tion. Yet  we  don't  know  any  thing  about  him. 
We  don't  know  what  he  is;  what  he  does; 
where  he  lives;  or  even  what  country  he  be- 
longs to." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  I  sometimes  think  he  is  the  devil. 
He  is  very  pleasant,  but  he  is  diabolical  in  all 
his  views  and  opinions,  nevertheless.  If  he  is 
not  the  devil,  he  has,  at  any  rate,  played  the 
devil  with  v.i.  I  feel  it  at  quiet  moments  like 
these,  when  we  are  not  excited  and  bandying 
flippant  jokes  and  unbelieving  sarcasms." 

I  smoked  for  a  few  moments  in  silence,  and  I 
then  said : 


MES.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


29 


"I  feel  it,  too,  exactly  as  you  do,  Tom.  I 
have  wished  to  sav  so  often,  onlv — only  I  didn't 
like." 

"Ned  that  is  exactly  what  I  have  felt.  Sup- 
pose we  take  courage  now." 

"  Suppose  we  do,"  I  said. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Tom.  "  Let  us  find 
out  who  this  Doctor  Goliath  is,  what  he  is,  and 
all  about  him." 

Tom  had  scarcely  said  the  words  when  the 
doctor  came  in.  He  had  a  small  bag  in  his 
hand,  and  a  parcel  under  his  arm. 

"I  am  not  going  to  stay  this  evening,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  work  to  do — work  that  the  world 
will  hear  of.  Ha  ?"  And  he  contracted  his 
brows  darkly,  and  laid  his  finger  on  his  nose  in 
a  portentous  manner. 

"Good  night,"  he  said;  "if  I  survive,  well 
and  good ;  if  not,  remember  me — but  as  to  that, 
I  don't  imagine  for  a  moment  that  you  will 
do  any  thing  of  the  sort.  You  will  say  'poor 
•wretch,'  apd  then  go  on  with  your  jokes  and 
your  sport.  'Tis  the  way  of  this  vile  world, 
which  has  been  a  huge  mistake  from  the  begin- 
ning.    Farewell." 

"Ned,"  said  Tom,  "let  iis  follow  him." 

We  did  so.  We  followed  him  into  the  Strand 
and  on  to  the  hridge,  where  he  had  an  alterca- 
tion with  the  toll-keeper.  We  could  hear  the 
words  "swindle,"  "imposition,"  "highway rob- 
bery;" and  we  saw  the  doctor's  face  under  the 
lamp  glaring  savagely  at  the  man.  At  length 
he  tiung  down  his  halfpenny,  and  walked  hur- 
riedly on,  but  stopped  abruptly  at  the  first  re- 
cess, turned  into  it,  and  looked  over  the  parapet 
at  the  river.  We  had  long  seriously  entertained 
the  suspicion — among  many  others  of  a  like 
kind — that  the  doctor  knew  something  about 
the  mysterious,  and  as  yet  undiscovered,  mur- 
der, which  is  associated  with  that  spot.  He  had 
hinted  at  it  himself  often. 

"Look!"  said  Tom.  "Fascination  draws 
him  to  the  scene  of  his  crime. — 1  almost  wish  he 
■would  throw  himself  over." 

But  the  doctor  did  no  such  thing.  After 
looking  down  at  the  river  for  a  few  moments, 
he  leaped  off  the  stone  ledge,  and  passed  on. 
We  followed  at  a  safe  distance,  and  kept  him  in 
sight  through  a  great  many  narrow  and  gloomy 
streets,  where  our  only  guide  was  the  dark  figure 
moving  like  a  shadow  before  us.  At  length  the 
doctor  turned  up  a  narrow  passage,  and  disap- 
peared. We  ran  forward  to  the  entrance,  but 
the  passage  was  completely  dark,  and  we  could 
see  nothing.  We  hesitated  for  a  moment,  but 
immediately  summoned  up  courage  and  fol- 
lowed, groping  our  way  in  the  dark  with  the 
assistance  of  th^wall.  On  coming  out  at  the 
other  end  of  this  dark  tunnel,  we  found  our- 
selves in  a  triangular  court  lighted  by  a  single 
pas-lamp  placed  at  the  apex  of  the  triangle. 
Tiiere  seemed  to  be  no  entrance  to  it  save  by 
the  narrow  passage  through  which  we  had 
passed.  Ail  these  strange  and  mysterious  char- 
acteristics of  the  place  we  were  enabled  to  see  at 
a  glance,  by  the  aid  of  the  one  gas-lamp  that 
stood  like  a  mark  of  admiration  in  the  corner. 
And  that  glance  took  in  the  cloudy  figure  of  the 
doctor  standing  at  a  door  in  the  darkest  nook 
of  the  court,  knocking.  He  was  admitted  be- 
fore we  reached  the  spot,  but  we  had  marked 
the  house.     It  was  number  thirteen. 


I  "An  ogglesome  number,"  said  Tom.  And 
there  was  an  ogglesome  plaster  head  over  the 
doorway — a  head,  with  a  leer  upon  its  face,  and 
a  reckoning-up  expression,  just  like  the  doctor's. 
It  seemed  to  be  laughing  at  the  fool's  errand  we 
had  come  upon. 

I  said,  "  Wliat  are  wfe  to  do  now  ?" 

"Well,  really,  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom. 

"  Stop,"  I  cried  ;  "  I  see  a  bill  in  the  window. 
What  does  it  say?" 

Tom  suggested,  "Mangling  done,"  as  being 
most  appropriate  to  a  house  inhabited  by  Doctor 
Goliath. 

But  it  was  not  mangling.  It  was  "Lodgings 
to  Let  for  a  Single  Gentleman." 

"Let  «s  knock,"  I  said,  "and  inquire  about 
the  lodgings,  and  ascertain  what  sort  of  a  place 
it  is." 

We  saw  a  light  pass  into  the  first  floor.  That 
was  evidently  the  doctor's  room,  and  he  had 
gone  up-stairs.  We  waited  a  little,  and  then 
knocked.  The  door  was  opened  by  an  elderly 
lady  of  exceedingly  benijgnant  aspect,  who  wore 
the  remnants  of  a  smile  upon  her  face.  The 
smile  was  evidently  not  intended  for  us,  but  we 
took  it  as  if  it  were,  and  reciprocated  with  a 
smiling  inquiry  about  the  lodgings.  Would  we 
step  in  and  look  at  them  ?  They  were  two  rooms 
down  stairs :  a  sitting-room  and  a  bedroom.  As 
the  elderly  lady,  with  a  candle  in  her  hand,  was 
leading  the  way  along  the  passage,  the  doctor 
called  from  above, 

"Mrs.  Mavor,  I  want  you  here  directly." 

"Excuse  me  a  moment,  gentlemen,"  said 
Mrs.  Mavor;  "the  doctor,  my  first-floor  lodger, 
has  just  come  in,  and  wants  his  coffee.  Fray 
take  a  seat  in  the  parlour." 

Mrs.  Mavor  left  us,  and  went  np-stairs,  and 
the  next  moment  we  heai-d  the  doctor  saying  in 
loud  and  angry  tones : 

"Where  is  my  spider?  How  dare  you  sweep 
away  my  spider  with  your  murderous  broom  ?" 

"Oh,  the  nasty  thing  I"  we  heard  Mrs.  Mavor 
begin  to  say,  but  the  doctor  would  not  let  her 
speak. 

"Nasty  thing!  That's  your  opinion.  What 
do  you  suppose  that  spider's  opinion  is  of  you, 
when  you  come  and  bring  his  house  about  his 
ears  in  the  midst  of  his  industry?  How  would 
you  like  it?  Let  me  tell  you  that  spider  had  as- 
much  right  to  live  as  you  have ;  more — more  I 
He  was  industrious,  which  you  are  not ;  he  had 
a  large  family  to  support,  which  you  have  not ; 
and  if  he  did  spread  a  net  to  catch  the  flies,  don't 
you  hang  up  'Lodgings  to  Let,'  and  take  in 
single  young  men,  like  myself,  and  do  for  them  ? 
You  are  a  heartless,  wicked  woman,  Mrs.  Ma- 
vor." 

Airs.  Mavor  came  down  almost  immediately, 
laughing. 

"  That's  my  first-floor  lodger,  Doctor  Goliath," 
she  said ;  "  he  has  strange  ways  in  some  things, 
and  pretends  to  get  in  an  awful  temper  if  any 
one  touches  Ijils  pets ;  but  he  is  such  a  good  kind 
soul !" 

Tom  and  I  began  to  stare. 

"  He  has  been  with  me  now  over  seven  years," 
Mi-s.  Mavor  continued,  "and  he  has  behaved  so 
well  to  me,  and  has  been  so  kind  to  me  when  I 
have  been  ill,  that  nothing  should  induce  me  to 
take  any  person  into  the  house  that  might  dis- 
turb him  or  put  him  out  of  bis  ways.    If  the 


80 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


doctor  wero  to  leave  Povis-place,  I  am  sure  I 
don't  know  what  all  the  neighbours  and  the  poor 
people  about  here  would  do ;  for  he  doctors  tiieni 
when  they  are  ill,  and  he  advises  them  when 
they  are  well,  and  he  writes  letters  for  them, 
and  gets  up  subscriptions  for  them  when  there's 
any  misfortune ;  and  the  children — they're  all 
wild  after  him !  Very  often  you'll  see  him  here 
in  the  place,  when  he  has  been  the  gentlest  and 
best  of  friends  to  their  fathers  and  mothers,  play- 
ing games  with  them,  and  a  score  of  romping 
boys  and  girls  on  the  top  of  liis  back — but  he 
don't  mind  ;  he's  so  good  natured,  and  so  fond 
of  children !" 

Tom  and  I  were  opening  our  eyes  wider  and 
wider.  The  doctor  called  again :  "Mrs.  Mavor, 
bring  me  a  ball  of  worsted,  and  let  it  be  nice 
and  soft." 

Mrs.  Mavor  went  np-stairs  with  the  worsted, 
and  came  back  again  smiling. 

"  He  has  got  his  dumb  pets  round  him  now," 
she  said,  "and  one  of  them  has  had  an  acci- 
dent, and  he  can't  bear  to  see  the  poor  creature 
suffer.     He  is  so  tender-hearted !" 

Tom  and  I  were  speechless.  The  doctor's 
pets,  what  could  they  be  ?    Imps  ? 

I  said  to  Mrs.  Mavor,  that  we  had  heard  of 
Doctor  Goliath,  that  he  was  a  very  learned  and 
skilful  man,  and  that  we  would  like  to  have  a 
peep  at  him,  if  she  would  permit  us.  Mrs.  Ma- 
yor Ijesitated.  He  would  be  angry,  she  said,  if 
he  knew  it.  We  put  it  upon  our  admiration  for 
the  man,  and  she  consented ;  but  we  were  only 
to  peep  through  the  door,  and  were  not  to  make 
a  noise. 

We  went  up-stairs  quietly  to  the  doctor's  land- 
ing. His  door  was  ajar,  and  we  could  see  near- 
ly half  the  room  through  the  crack,  without  be- 
ing seen.  If  it  had  been  possible  to  open  our 
eyes  any  wider,  we  should  have  done  it  now. 

For,  the  doctor  was  seated  at  a  table  on  which 
his  tea-things  were  laid.  A  canary-bird  sat 
perched  upon  his  head,  a  kitten  was  sporting  at 
his  feet,  and  he  himself  was  occupied  in  binding 
np  the  leg  of  a  guinea-pig. 

"Poor  little  thing!"  he  was  saying.  "I  am 
so  Borry,  so  sorry;  but  never  mind.  There, 
there !  I  will  bind  up  its  poor  little  leg,  and  it 
will  pet  well  and  run  about  as  nicely  as  ever. 
•Ah,  little  cat ;  now  you  know  what  I  told  you 
about  that  canary-bird.  If  you  kill  that  canary- 
bird,  I  shall  kill  you.  That  is  the  law  of  Moses, 
little  cat:  it  is  a  cruel  law,  I  think,  but  I  am 
afraid  I  should  have  to  put  it  in  force;  for  I 
love  that  little  bird,  and  I  love  you,  too,  little 
cat,  so  you  will  not  kill  my  pretty  canary,  will 
you^  Sweet,  sweet!"  And  the  bird,  perched 
upon  the  doctor's  head,  was  answering  "Sweet, 
Bweet!" 

Mrs.  !Mavor  was  behind  us,  calling  to  ns  in  a 
loud  whisper  to  come  away.  We  astonished 
Mra.  Mavor  and  her  lodger  both.  We  walked 
right  into  the  doctor's  room. 

He  started  at  the  sound  of  onr  footsteps ;  and 
when  he  saw  us  he  turned  pale  with  anger. 

"  What  means  this — this  unwarrantable — this 
impertinent  intrusion  ?" 

He  poured  such  a  volley  of  angry  words  upon 
ns  that  we  were  confused,  and  scarcely  knew 
how  to  act.  I  saw  that  the  only  course  was  to 
take  the  bull  by  the  horns. 

"Doctor,"  I  said,  "you  are  an  old  humbug." 


"What  do  you  moan;  what  do  you  mean, 
sir?     How  dare  you !"  returned  the  doctor. 

"  And  I  say  so  too,"  struck  in  the  mild  Tom, 
who  had  never  before  been  known  to  speak  so 
bold;  "doctor,  you  are  an  old  humbug." 

"Well,  upon  my  word,"  said  the  doctor,  "  the 
audacity  of  this  proceeding " 

"Who  taught  us  to  be  audacious,  doctor?" 
Tom  asked,  before  he  could  finish  the  sentence. 

The  doctor  gave  way.  He  laughed,  and  he 
looked  sheepish — as  sheepish  as  we  had  looked 
when  he  discovered  our  loving-cup  scheme.  He 
scarcely  knew  what  to  say,  and  he  put  on  a 
fierce  look  again,  and  called  Mrs.  Mavor. 

"  How  dare  you  allow  strangers  to  enter  my 
room  in  this  manner?  Take  that  bird  and  that 
mischievous  cat  and  that  nasty  guinea-pig  away, 
directly." 

' '  It's  of  no  use,  doctor, "  said  Tom ;  "  we  have 
found  you  out,  and  you  can't  deceive  us  any 
more.  I  have  thought  until  now  tliat  you  were 
an  incarnate  fiend,  but  I  find  you  belong  to  the 
other  side."  Tom  evidently  meant  that  the  doc- 
tor was  a  sort  of  angel,  but  he  did  not  use  the 
word ;  being  probably  struck  with  the  incongru- 
ity of  associating  an  angelic  embodiment  with  a 
wide-awake  hat  and  Blucher  boots. 

The  doctor  laughed :  which  encouraged  Tom 
to  address  a  moral  lesson,  on  the  doctor's  con- 
duct, to  Mrs.  Mavor. 

"To  all  of  us,  Mrs.  Mavor,  he  has  made  him- 
self out  a  diabolical  person :  fierce,  bloodthirsty, 
cruel.  We  had  made  a  little  Paradise  among 
ourselves,  and  he  entered  it,  like  the  beguiling 
serpent,  and  made  us  all  wicked  and  unhappy. 
What  did  he  do  it  for?" 

Mrs.  Mavor,  seeing  that  the  doctor  was  getting 
the  worst  of  it,  plucked  up  courage  and  spoke  out. 
"He  does  it  everywhere  beyond  the  boundaries 
of  Povis-place,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  he  does  it 
for.  He  is  ashamed  of  being  good,  and  kind,  and 
tender-hearted .'" 

"A  pretty  thing  to  be  ashamed  of,"  said  Tom, 

"I've  half  a  mind  to  punch  his  head  I" 

"No,  don't,"  said  the  doctor,  laughing.  "  Sit 
down  and  have  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  then  Mrs. 
Mavor  will  come  and  join  ns  in  a  game  of  whist, 
and  we'll  have  a  potato-salad  for  supper,  and 
I'll  brew  such  a  bowl  of  punch  as  I  flatter  my- 
self no  man  on  the  face  of  the  earth  besides  my- 
self  " 

"Doctor,"  said  Tom  again,  "you're  a  hum- 
bug." 

We  told  all  to  the  society,  and  the  next  time 
the  doctor  came  among  us  at  Mrs.  Liniper's 
here,  he  was  received  with  shouts  of  derisive 
welcome. 

The  doctor  gave  a  party  iupPovis-place,  and 
we  w^ere  all  invited.  There  was  so  much  victuals, 
there  were  so  many  bottles  of  German  wine,  iiud 
there  was  so  large  a  number  of  guests,  that  Mrs. 
Mavor's  small  tenement  was  in  some  danger  of 
bursting.  If  I  remember  rightly,  the  provisions 
were  on  the  scale  of  a  ham  and  tw^o  fowls  and  a 
dozen  of  hocheimer,  to  each  guest :  to  say  no- 
thing of  the  potato-salad,  which  was  made  in  a 
bran  new  wash-hand  basin,  purchased  for  the 
occasion. 

And  after  supper  there  was  a  presentation. 
The  loving-cups  had  been  redeemed ;  and  one 
more  was  added  to  the  number;  and  there  they 
were,  all  bright  and  glittering — having  been 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


81 


mbbed  np  expressly  for  the  occasion — in  a  row  ' 
upon  the  table.  And  the  extra  one  was  in-  | 
scribed,  "  To  the  Doctor,  from  Tom,  Ned,  Sam,  | 
Will,  Jack,  Charley,  and  Harry,  a  Token  of  I 
Friendship  and  Esteem."  j 

Thongh  our  old  heroes  and  idols  are  all  set 
up  on  their  pedestals  long  ago.  Major,  we  are 
still  given  to  cynical  and  audacious  talk  in  our 
society,  which  is  still  held  in  my  rooms  here. 
But  it  deceives  no  one ;  and  when  the  doctor 
tries  to  be  fierce,  he  blushes  at  the  feeble  and 
foolish  attempt  he  is  making  to  conceal  the  ten- 
derness of  the  kindest  heart  that  ever  beat. 


IV. 

HOW  THE  SECOND  FLOOE  KEPT  A  DOG. 

Mrs.  Liuriper  rather  objects  to  dogs,  you  say, 
Major  ?  Very  natural  in  a  London  house.  Shall 
I  tell  you  why  I  hope  she  will  not  object  to  my 
dog,  Major  ?    Help  yourself.     So  I  will. 

"Ah,  but,  to  goodness,  look  you,  will  her 
bite?"  exclaimed  an  old  Welshwoman,  as  she 
pulled  her  big  hat  further  on  her  head,  and 
looked  askance  at  the  big  black  dog  which  the 
man  sitting  next  her  had  just  hauled  on  to  the 
coach-roof. 

"It  isn't  a  her,  and  he  won't  bite,"  was  the 
sententious  reply  of  the  dog's  master. 

Not  a  pleasant-looking  man,  this;  tall  and 
thin,  whiskerless  and  sallow  faced;  his  head 
looking  more  like  a  bladder  of  lard  surmounted 
by  a  scratch-wig,  than  anything  human :  dressed 
ail  in  black,  with  a  stiff  shiny  hat,  beaver  gloves, 
and  thick  lustreless  Wellington  boots.  He  had 
enormous  collars  encircling  his  face  and  growing 
peakedly  out  of  a  huge  black  silk  cravat;  he 
had  a  black  satin  waistcoat  and  a  silver  watch- 
guard,  and  an  umbrella  in  a  shiny  oilskin  case, 
and  a  hard  slippery  cold  black  cowskin  bag,  with 
J.  M.  upon  it  in  staring  white  letters;  and  he 
looked  very  much  like  what  he  was — Mr.  John 
Mortihoy,  junior  partner  in  the  house  of  Crump 
and  Mortiboy,  Manchester  warehousemen,  Fri- 
day-street, Cheapside,  London. 

What  brought  Mr.  John  Mortiboy  into  Wales 
to  spend  his  holidays,  or  what  induced  such  a 
pillar  of  British  commerce  to  encumber  himself 
with  a  dog,  is  no  business  of  ours,  Major.  All  I 
know,  is,  that  he  had  been  set  down  at  the  Bar- 
berth-road  station,  had  dragged  the  black  cow- 
skin  bag  from  under  his  seat,  had  released  the 
dog  from  a  square  bare  receptacle  which  the 
animal  had  filled  with  howls,  and  had  mounted 
himself  and  his  dog  on  to  the  top  of  the  coach 
travelling  towai-d  the  little  watering-place  of 
Penethly.  The  dog,  a  big  black  retriever,  lay 
on  the  coach-roof  with  his  fine  head  erect,  now 
gazing  round  the  landscape,  now  dropping  his 
cold  muzzle  between  his  paws  and  taking  snatch- 
es of  sleep.  His  master  sat  on  the  extreme  edge 
of  the  s-eat,  with  one  Wellington  boot  very  much 
displayed  and  dangling  in  the  air,  and  he,  the 
Wellington  boot's  owner,  apparently  deriving 
much  enjoyment  from  the  suction  of  his  um- 
brella-handle. He  cast  his  big  eyes  .round  him 
now  and  then  at  certain  portions  of  the  scenery- 
pointed  out  by  the  coachman,  and  expressed  his 
opinion  that'll  was  "handsome,"  but  beyond 


that  never  vouchsafed  a  word  nntil  the  coach 
drew  up  at  the  Royal  Inn  at  Penethly,  when  he 
went  at  once  round  to  the  stables  and  superin- 
tended the  preparation  of  a  meal  for  his  dog, 
then  ordered  a  "point  steak  well  beat,  potatoes, 
and  a  pint  of  sherry,"  to  be  ready  for  him  in  an 
hour's  time ;  inquired  the  way  to  Albion  Villa ; 
and  set  off  for  Albion  Villa  accompanied  by  his 
dog  Beppo. 

I  don't  think  Mr.  John  Mortiboy  was  much 
wanted  at  Albion  Villa,  nor  that  he  was  exactly 
the  kind  of  man  who  would  have  suited  its  in- 
mates. They  were  little  conscious  of  the  ap- 
proach of  his  hard  creaking  boots,  striding  over 
the  ill-paved  High-street  of  the  little  town,  and 
were  enjoying  themselves  after  their  own  simple 
fashion.  The  blinds  were  down,  the  candles 
were  lighted,  and  Mrs.  Barford  was  pretending 
to  be  knitting,  but  really  enjoying  a  placid  sleep; 
Ellen,  her  eldest  daughter,  was  reading  a  mag- 
azine ;  Kate,  her  youngest,  was  making  some 
sketches  under  the  obser^-ant  tuition  of  a  slim 
gentleman  with  a  light  beard,  who  apparently 
took  the  greatest  interest  in  his  pupil.  Upon 
this  little  group  the  clang  of  the  gate  bell,  the 
creaking  of  Mr.  John  Mortiboy's  boots,  and  the 
strident  tones  of  Mr.  John  Mortiboy's  voice,  fell 
uncomfortably.  '*Say  Mr.  John  Mortiboy,  of 
London,"  he  exclaimed,  while  yet  in  the  little 
passage  outside.  The  startled  Welsh  servant 
having  obeyed  him,  he  followed  close  upon  her 
heels  into  the  room. 

"  Sers-ant,  ladies !"  said  he,  with  a  short  cir- 
cular nod,  "servant,  Mrs.  Barford?  Best  to 
explain  matters  wholesale.  You  wonder  who  I 
am.  You're  sister-in-law  to  my  uncle,  Jonas 
Crump.  I'm  my  uncle's  partner  in  Friday-street. 
Done  too  much ;  rather  baked  in  the  head — 
heavy  consignments  and  sitting  up  late  at  night 
poring  over  figures.  The  doctor  recommend- 
ed change  of  air;  uncle  Crump  recommended 
Penethly,  and  mentioned  you.  I  came  down 
here,  and  have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling. 
Down,  Beppo !  Don't  mind  him,  miss,  he  won't 
hurt  you." 

"  Oh !  I'm  not  afraid  of  the  dog!"  said  Ellen, 
with  a  slight  start  at  Mr.  Mortiboy's  general 
manner,  and  at  his  calling  her  "Miss."  Kate 
looked  on  in  wonder,  and  the  slim  gentleman 
with  the  light  beard  confided  to  the  said  beard 
the  word  "Brute." 

"  We're — very — pleased  to  see  yon,  Mr.  Mor- 
tiboy," said  Mrs.  Barford,  "and — and  hope  that 
you  will  soon  recover  your  health  in  our  quiet 
village.  I'm  sm-e  anything  that  we  can — can 
do— my  daughters.  Miss  Ellen,  Miss  Kate  Bar- 
ford ;  a  friend  of  ours,  Mr.  Sandham — we  shall 

be  most  happy  to "    As  Mrs.  Barford's  voice 

died  away  in  the  contemplation  of  the  happiness 
before  her,  the  young  ladies  and  Mr.  Sandham 
bowed,  and  Mr.  Mortiboy  favoured  them  with  a 
series  of  short  nods.  Then  he  said,  abruptly  turn- 
ing to  the  slim  gentleman,  "In  the  army,  sir?" 

"No,  sir,  I  am  not!"  retorted  the  slim  gen- 
tleman, with  great  promptitude. 

"Beg  pardon,  no  offence!  Volunteer,  per- 
haps ?  Hair,  yon  know,  beard,  et  caetera,  made 
me  think  you  were  in  the  militar}'  line.  Many 
young  gents  nnw-a-days  are  volunteers!" 

"Mr.  Sandham  is  an  artist,"  said  Mrs.  Bar- 
ford, iutci7)osing  in  dread  lest  there  should  be 
an  outbreak.       * 


82 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


"Oh  ah!"  said  Mr.  Mortiboy.  "Bad  trade 
that — demand  not  equal  to  supply,  is  it  ?  Too 
many  hands  employed ;  barely  bread  and  cheese, 
I'm  told,  for  any  but  the  top-sawyers." 

"Sir!"  said  Mr.  Sandliam,  in  a  loud  tone  of 
voice,  and  fiercely. 

"Edward!"  said  Miss  Kate,  beneath  her 
breath,  appealingly. 

"Won't  you  take  some  refreshment,  Mr. 
Mortiboy?"' asked  Mrs.  Barford,  warningly. 
"We're  just  going  to  supper." 

"No,  thank  you,  mam,"  said  Mr.  Mortiboy. 
"Tve  a  steak  and  potatoes  waiting  forme  at  the 
Royal,  after  which  I  shall  turn  in  at  once,  as  I'm 
done  up  by  my  journey.  Good  night,  ladies 
all !  Good  night  to  you,  sir !  I'll  look  you  up 
to-morrow  morning,  and  if  any  of  you  want  to 
go  for  a  turn,  I  shall  be  proud  to  beau  you  about. 
Good  night!"  And  beckoning  his  dog,  Mr. 
Mortiboy  took  his  departure. 

Scarcely  had  the  door  closed  behind  him,  than 
the  long-restrained  comments  began. 

"A  pleasant  visitor  uncle  Crump  has  sent  us, 
mamma!"  said  Kate. 

"  Uncle  Crump,  indeed !  Who  never  sent  us 
anything  before,  except  a  five-pound  note  when 
poor  papa  died  !"  exclaimed  Ellen. 

"  But  you  won't,  will  you,  mamma,  you  won't 
be  put  upon  in  this  way?  You  won't  have  this 
horrid  man  running  in  and  out  at  all  times  and 
seasons,  and " 

"  And  6€aM-ing  us  about !  the  vulgar  wretch !" 
mterrnpted  Kate. 

"My  dears!  my  dears!"  said  Mrs.  Barford, 
"it  strikes  me  that  some  one  has  been  teaching 
you  very  strong  language." 

"Not  I,  Mrs.  Barford,"  said  Mr.  Sandham; 
"  absolve  me  from  that ;  though  I  must  own  that 
if  ever  I  saw  a  man  who  wanted  kicking " 

"Nonsense,  Mr.  Sandham.  This  gentleman 
is  imbued  with  certain  London  peculiarities,  no 
doubt;  but  I  dare  say  there's  good  in  him. 
There  must  be,  or  he  would  never  be  the  partner 
of  snch  an  upright  man  as  Jonas  Cruinp." 

"Upright  man !  Pooh  !"  said  Kate ;  and  then 
the  supper  came  in,  and  the  subject  dropped. 

At  nine  o'clock  next  morning,  just  as  the 
breakfast-things  had  been  cleared,  and  Mrs. 
Barford  was  going  through  her  usual  interview 
with  the  cook,  Kate,  who  was  sitting  in  the  lit- 
tle bay-window,  started  and  exclaimed:  "Oh, 
mamma!     Here's  this  horrid  man !" 

Ellen  peeped  over  her  shoulder,  and  said,  "I 
think  he  looks,  if  possible,  more  dreadful  by  day- 
light than  by  candlelight!" 

Mr.  John  Mortiboy,  utterly  unconscious  of  the 
effect  he  was  producing,  unlatched  the  garden- 
gate,  and  then  for  the  first  time  looking  up,  nod- 
ded shortly  and  familiarly  at  the  sisters.  "  How 
do,  young  ladies?"  he  called  from  the  garden. 
"Fine  morning  this;  fresh  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing !  I  feel  better  already.  Wlien  a  London 
man's  a  little  overdone,  nothing  sets  him  up  so 
soon  as  a  sniff  of  the  briny." 

And  then  he  took  a  great  gulp,  as  if  to  swallow 
as  much  fresh  air  as  possible,  and  entered  the 
house,  followed  by  his  dog. 

"Did  you  hear  him,  Nelly?"  asked  Kate 
"The  wretch !  I'm  sure  /won't  be  seen  walk- 
ing with  him,  in  his  nasty  black  clothes,  like  an 
undertaker !" 

"He  haa  a  chimney-pot  ifat  on.  and   has 


brought  his  umbrella  I  Fancy  !  At  the  sea  !" 
said  Ellen. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Barford,"  said  ]\Ir. 
Mortiboy ;  ' '  domestic  aiTangements,  eh  ?  I 
understand.  If  you've  no  objection,  I'll  do  my- 
self the  pleasure  of  cutting  my  mutton  witli  yon 
to-day.  And  mutton  it  will  be,  I  sujipose ! 
Can't  get  any  beef  here,  I  understand,  except 
on  Friday,  which  is  killing-day  for  the  bar- 
racks. Bad  arrangement  that ;  wants  altera- 
tion." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  alter  it  then,  Mr.  Morti- 
boy," said  Kate  ;  "superintending  the  butcher 
will  be  a  pleasant  way  of  spending  your  holi- 
day." 

"  Joking,  miss,  eh  ?  Well,  I  don't  mind.  But 
ain't  you  coming  out,  young  ladies,  for  a  mouth- 
ful of  air.  I  suppose  the  old  lady  don't  move  so 
early." 

"If  you  refer  to  mamma,"  said  Ellen,  frigid- 
ly, "  she  never  goes  out  until  just  before  dinner." 

"  Ah,  I  thought  not.  Old  folks  must  wait  un- 
til the  air  is  what  they  call  warmed  by  the  sun. 
But  that  won't  hinder  our  taking  a  turn,  I  sup- 
pose.    Where's  Whiskerandos  ?" 

"  If,  as  I  presume,  you  mean  ]\Ir.  Sandham, 
the  gentleman  who  was  here  last  night,  I  can- 
not inform  you,  Mr.  Mortiboy,"  said  Kate,  with 
a  very  flushed  face,  and  a  slightly  trembling 
voice  ;  "but  I  would  advise  you  not  to  let  him 
hear  you  joking  about  him,  as  he  is  rather  quick- 
tempered." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Mortiboy,  "a 
fire-eater  is  he  ?  Well,  there's  no  duelling  now, 
you  know.  Any  nonsense  of  that  sort, — give 
a  man  in  charge  of  a  policeman,  or  summons 
him  before  a  magistrate,  and  get  him  bound 
over." 

Just  at  this  moment  Mrs.  Barford  came  in 
and  told  tlie  girls  to  get  their  hats  on,  and  show 
Mr.  Mortiboy  the  prettiest  spots  in  the  village, 
the  Castle  Hill,  the  ruined  Abbey,  and  the 
Smuggler's  Leap.  To  these  places  they  went, 
Mr.  Mortiboy  discoursing  the  whole  way  of  the 
badness  of  the  roads,  and  of  what  improvements 
might  be  made  if  they  had  a  properly  constituted 
local  board  of  health  at  Penethly  ;  declaring  that 
the  cries  of  "Milfoi'd  oysters,"  and  "fresh  had- 
dick,"  were  entirely  unconstitutional  and  illegal, 
as  no  one  had  a  right  to  shout  in  the  public 
streets ;  that  there  ought  to  be  proper  stands 
provided  for  the  car-drivers  ;  and  that  a  regular 
police  supervision  was  urgently  demanded.  He 
did  not  think  much  of  the  Abbey  ruins,  and  he 
laughed  in  scorn  at  the  stoiy  of  the  Smuggler's 
Leap.  As  they  were  on  their  homeward  way, 
coming  round  the  Castle  Hill,  they  met  Mr. 
Sandham,  very  ruddy  and  fresh,  and  sliiny,  and 
with  a  couple  of  towels  in  his  band.  He  took 
off  his  wide-awake  as  he  approached  the  ladies, 
and  bowed  slightly  to  Mi\  Mortiboy. 

"Ah  Mr.  Sandham  !"  said  Ellen,  with  an  ad- 
monitory finger,  you  have  been  bathing  again 
by  St.  Catherine's  Rock,  after  all  the  warning 
we  gave  you  I" 

"  My  dear  Ellen,"  interposed  Kate  with  a 
petulant  air,  "  how  can  you  ?  If  Mr.  Sandliam 
chooses  to  risk  his  life  after  what  he  has  been 
told,  it  surely  is  nothing  to  us !"  / 

"  Now,  Miss  Kate,  Miss  Kate,  that's  not 
fair!"  said  Sandham;  "you  know,"  he  added, 
dropping  his  voice,  "  that  every  word  of  yours 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGmGS. 


wonld  have  weight  with  mo,  but  the  tide  was 
slack  this  morning,  and  really  there  is  no  other 
place  where  a  swimmer  can  really  enjoy  a  bath. 
You  are  a  swimmer,  Mr.  Mortiboy?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  that  gentleman.  "Yes, 
sirj  I  can  manage  it.  I've  had  lessons  at  Peerless 
Pool  and  the  Holborn  Baths,  and  can  keep  up 
well  enough.  But  I  don't  like  it.  I  don't  see 
mudi  fun  in  what  are  absurdly  called  the  '  man- 
ly exercises.'  Twenty  years  ago,  young  men 
used  to  like  driving  coaches ;  now  I  can't  con- 
ceive duller  work  than  holding  a  bunch  of  thick 
leather  reins  in  your  hand,  steering  four  tired 
horses,  sitting  on  a  hard  seat,  and  listening  to 
the  conversation  of  an  uneducated  coachman.  I 
never  ride,  because  I  hate  bumping  up  and  down 
on  a  hard  saddle  and  rubbing  the  skin  off  my 
body ;  I  never  play  cricket,  because  in  the  hot 
weather  I  like  to  keep  quiet  and  cool,  and  not 
toil  in  the  sun ;  and  as  to  going  out  shooting  and 
stumping  over  miles  of  stubble  in  September, 
lugging  a  big  gun  and  tiring  myself  to  death,  I 
look  upon  that  as  the  pursuit  of  a  maniac !  I 
am  a  practical  man  !" 

"  You  are  indeed !"  said  Kate,  as  she  dropped 
gradually  behind  with  Mr.  ^andhara,  and  left 
the  practical  man  and  her  sister  Ellen  to  lead 
the  way  to  the  house. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  recount  the  sayings  and 
doings  of  Mr.  John  Mortiboy  during  the  next 
few  days.  It  is  enough  that  he  spent  the  great- 
er portion  of  them  with  the  Barford  family,  and 
that  he  so  elaborated  his  ideas  of  practicality, 
and  so  enveighed  against  every  thing  that  was 
not  absolutely  useful  in  a  mercantile  point  of 
view — including,  in  a  measure,  art,  poetry,  music, 
and  the  domestic  affections — that  he  incurred 
the  unmitigated  hatred  of  the  young  ladies,  and 
even  fell  to  zero  in  Mrs.  Barford's  estimation. 

It  was  about  the  fifth  morning  after  the  in- 
trusion of  this  utterly  incongruous  element  jnto 
the  society  of  Albion  Villa,  that  Ellen  and  Kate 
strolled  out  immediately  after  breakfast  with  the 
view  of  escaping  the  expected  visit  of  their  per- 
secutor, and  made  their  way  to  the  Castle  Hill. 
The  night  had  been  tempestuous,.and  from  tlieir 
window  they  had  noticed  that  a  heavy  sea  was 
running :  they  consequently  were  not  surprised 
to  see  a  little  group  of  people  gathered  on  the 
heights  looking  towards  St.  Catherine's  Rock :  a 
huge  mass  of  granite  surmounted  by  an  old  ruin, 
round  which,  when  it  was  insulated  at  high  wa- 
ter, the  tide  always  swept  with  a  peculiar  apd 
dangerous  swirl.  But  when  they  joined  the 
group,  among  which  were  several  of  their  friends, 
they  found  that  the  concourse  were  regarding, 
with  interest  mingled  with  fright,  the  move- 
ments of  a  swimmer  who  had  rounded  the  ex- 
tremity of  Catherine's,  and  wAs  seen  making  for 
the  shore. 

"He'll  never  doit,"  said  Captain  Calthorp, 
an  old  half-pay  dragoon,  who  had  been  tempt- 
ed by  the  cheapness  of  Penethly  to  pitch  his  tent 
there;  "  he'll  never  do  it,  by  Jove  !  Yes!  Well 
struggled,  sir ;  he  made  a  point  there — hold  on, 
now,  and  he's  in." 

"  ^yho  is  it  ?"  asked  the  coast-guard  lieutenant 
who  was  standing  by.     "Any  one  we  know  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  at  this  distance!"  said  Captain 

Calthorp,  "  though  it  looks  like stay!  There's 

one  of  your  look-out  men  on  the  height,  with  a 
glass ;  give  him  a  hail !" 


"Yoho!  Morgan!"  cried  the  lieutenant.  "Ay, 
ay,  sir !"  was  the  man's  ready  response,  though 
the  glass  was  never  moved.  "  Bring  that  glass 
down  here!"  "Ay,  ay,  sir;"  and  in  two  min- 
utes the  old  coast-guard-man  was  by  his  officer's 
side.  He  saluted  and  handed  the  glass,  but  as 
he  did  so  he  said,  in  an  undertone,  "God  help 
the  gentleman,  he's  done !  Ah,  look  you  now, 
poor  thing,  nothing  can  save  him." 

"What!"  cries  the  lieutenant,  clapping  the 
glass  to  his  eye.     "By  Jove,  you're  right !  he's 

in  a  bad  way,  and  it why  it's  the  artist  chap, 

that  friend  of  the  Barfords' !" 

"Who?"  screamed  Kate,  rushing  np  at  the 
moment.  "  Who  did  you  say,  Mr.  Lawford  ? 
Oil,  for  God's  sake,  save  him !  Save  him,  Mr. 
Lawford!     Save  him.  Captain  Calthorp!" 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  said  the  last-named 
gentleman,  "I  am  sure  Lawford  didn't  know 
you  were  here,  or  he  wouldn't " 

"This  is  no  time  for  ceremony.  Captain  Cal- 
thorp," said   Ellen;    "for   Heaven's  sake  let 

some  effort  be  made  to  save  my  sister's to 

save  Mr.  Sandham!" 

"My  dear  Miss  Barford,"  said  Lawford,  who 
had  been  whispering  with  Morgan,  "I  fear  no 
mortal  aid  can  avail  the  poor  dear  fellow  now. 
Before  we  could  descend  the  rock,  and  launch 
a  boat,  with  the  tide  ebbing  at  the  rate  it  now 
is " 

"Hur  would  have  been  swep'  round  Cath- 
'rine's,  and  away  out  to  sea!"  said  Morgan. 

"Oh,  help  him !"  screamed  Kate.  "  Oh,  how 
cruel !  how  cowardly !  Oh,  help  him,  Mr.  Law- 
ford !"  She  lifted  up  her  hands  piteously  to  the 
lieutenant.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Mortiboy,"  she  exclaim- 
ed,  as  that  gentleman  came  slowly  saunter- 
ing up  the  hill  with  Beppo  at  his  heels,  "  for 
God's  sake,  save  Mr.  Sandham !" 

"  Save — Mr.  Sandham — my  dear  young  lady  ; 
I  don't  exactly  comprehend  !"  began  Mr.  Mor- 
tiboy, looking  vaguely  in  the  direction  of  her 
outstretched  hand ;  then  suddenly,  "  Good 
Lord !  is  tkat  his  head  ?  There !  Down 
there !" 

"Yes!"  whispered  Ellen  Barford;  "yes! 
They  say  he  will  be  whirled  away  before  a  boat 
could  be  launched — they  say  he  is  lost  now!" 

"  Not  at  all !  Not  yet,  at  least !"  replied 
Mortiboy,  excited,  but  without  much  percepti- 
ble alteration  of  manner.  "While  there's  life 
there's  hope,  you  know.  Miss  B.,  and  even  yet 

we  may Here,  Beppo  !    Hi,  man  !  hi !  Good 

boy!"  The  dog  came,  leaping  round  his  mas- 
ter. "Hi!  ho!  Not  here!  There!  there! 
Look,  boy !"  catching  him  by  the  collar,  and 
pointing  down  to  where  Sandham's  head  was  a 
mere  speck  on  the  water.  "  Look,  man  !  Look, 
old  boy  !  He  sees  it,  by  Jove !"  as  the  dog  ut- 
tered a  low  growl,  and  became  restive.  "In, 
old  man  !  In,  fine  fellow  !  In,  Beppo !  Look ! 
Noble  dog,  in  he  goes !" 

In  he  went,  with  one  bound  over  the  low 
stone  wall,  then  quickly  down  the  sloping  slip- 
pery boulders,  then  with  a  plunge  into  the  sea 
— lost  sight  of  for  a  moment,  rising  to  view  again, 
paddling  off  straight  for  the  drowning  man.  The 
swift  current  whirled  him  in  eddies  here  and 
there,  but  still  the  brave  dog  persevered ;  the 
spectators  held  there  breath,  as  they  saw  hira 
bearing  down  upon  the  black  speck,  which  was 
every  second  growing  smaller  and  smaller,  and  re- 


84 


MRS.  LIRRIPERS  LODGINGS. 


ceding  further  and  further  from  the  land.  But 
the  dog  made  grand  progress,  the  strong  suck- 
ing under-current  helped  him,  and  he  arrived  at 
Sandham's  side  just  in  time  for  the  drowning  man 
to  fling  his  arms  round  the  dog's  neck,  and  to 
feci  his  shoulder  seized  by  the  dog's  teeth.  They 
saw  this  from  the  shore,  and  then  Kate  Barford 
fainted. 

But  the  work  was  only  half  done :  the  dog 
turned  round  and  battled  bravely  for  the  shore, 
but  he  was  encumbered  by  his  burden,  and  now 
the  current  was  against  him.  He  strove  and 
strove,  but  the  way  he  made  was  small,  and 
every  foot  was  gained  with  intense  struggling 
and  exertion.  "  By  Jove  !  He'll  never  doit," 
cried  Lieutenant  Lawford,  with  the  glass  at  his 
eye,  and,  as  he  said  the  words,  old  Morgan,  the 
preventive-man,  added  through  his  teeth,  "Hur 
must  be  helped,  at  any  cost,"  and  sped  away 
down  the  rock,  shaping  his  course  to  where  a 
small  pleasure-boat  lay  high  and  dry  on  the 
sand,  I'm  with  you,  governor,"  cried  John 
Mortiboy ;  "  I  can't  feather,  but  I  pull  a  strong- 
ish  oar ;"  and  he  followed  the  old  man  as  best  he 
could.  The  boat  was  reached,  and  pushed  by 
main  force  to  the  water's  edge,  where  Mortiboy 
entered  it,  and  old  Morgan  ran  in,  waist-deep, 
to  give  it  the  starting  shove,  and  then  leaped  in 
to  join  his.  comrade.  On  they  pulled,  Morgan 
with  a  measured  steady  stroke,  Mortiboy  with 
fevered  strong  jerks  that  sent  the  boat's  head 
now  to  the  right,  now  to  the  left :  when  old  Mor- 
gan, suddenly  looking  over  his  shoulder,  called 
out,  "  Hur's  done  !  Hur's  sinking  now,  both 
on  'em  ! "  Mortiboy  looked  round  too ;  they 
were  still  some  ten  boats'  length  from  the  ob- 
jects of  their  pursuit,  and  both  dog  and  man 
were  vanishing.  "Not  yet!"  cried  he;  and  in 
an  instant  he  had  torn  off  the  black  coat  and  tlie 
Wellington  boots,  and  had  flung  himself,  as 
nobly  as  his  own  dog,  into  the  sea. 

A  very  few  strokes  brought  him  to  Sandham  ; 
he  seized  him  by  the  hair  of  his  head,  and  bat- 
tled bravely  with  the  waves ;  the  flog,  recognis- 
ing his  master,  seemed  to  take  fresh  courage, 
and  the  trio  floated  until  old  Morgan  dragged 
them  one  by  one  into  the  boat.  When  they 
reached  the  shore,  all  Penethly  was  on  the  beach, 
cheering  with  all  its  might :  they  lifted  out  Mr. 
Sandham,  insensible  but  likely  to  recover,  and 
they  administered  a  very  stiff  glass  of  grog  to  Mr. 
Mortiboy,  who  was  shivering  like  an  aspen-leaf, 
but  who  received  even  greater  warmth  from  a 
warm  pressure  of  Ellen  Barford's  hand,  and  a 
whispered  "God  bless  you,  Mr.  Mortiboy !"  than 
from  the  grog — though  he  took  that,  too,  like  a 
man  whom  it  comforted.  As  for  Beppo,  I  don't 
know  what  the  fishing  population  would  not  have 
done  for  him,  but  that  he  positively  refused  to 
stir  from  Sandham's  side.  As  they  carried  the 
artist  up  to  his  lodgings  the  dog  buried  his  nose 
in  the  pendent  hand,  and  did  not  leave  until  he 
had  seen  his  charge  safely  placed  in  bed. 

Mr.  Sandham  was,  in  his  own  words,  "All 
right"  next  day,  but  Mr.  Mortiboy,  unaccustomed 
to  exercise  and  damp,  fell  ill,  and  was  confined 
to  his  bed  for  several  weeks — would  have  never 
left  it,  I  think,  but  for  the  care  and  attention  of 
his  three  nurses  from  Albion  Villa.  Of  these, 
Ellen  was  the  most  constant  and  the  most  regu- 
lar, and  the  patient  always  seemed  better  under 
her  care. 


"  He  is  making  progress,  Kate,"  she  said  one 
night  to  her  sister.  "He  is  a  good  patient.  You 
know,  as  he  would  say  himself,  he  is  so  practi- 
cal." 

"  God  bless  his  practicality,  Nell,"  said  Kste, 
with  tears  in  her  eves.     "  Tiiink  what  it  did  for 


Three  years  have  passed  since  then,  Major, 
and  a  family  group  is  going  to  be  gathered  in  a 
large  square  room  built  as  a  kind  of  excrescence 
to  a  very  pretty  villa  in  Kensington.  This  is  to 
be  the  studio  of  Mr.  Sandham,  A.R.A.  But  as 
the  mortar  and  plaster  are  extraordinarily  slow- 
in  drying  (when  were  they  not,  Major?),  Mr. 
Sandham,  A.R.A.,  come  up  from  Wales  with 
the  family  group,  to  take  possession,  has  estab- 
lished the  group  at  the  excellent  Lodgings  of  the 
excellent  Mrs.  Lirriper,  and  he,  the  owner  of 
said  studio,  is  smoking  a  pipe  with  a  worthy  Ma- 
jor, and  smoothing  with  his  slippered  foot  the 
rough  curly  back  t)f  his  dog  Beppo,  who  is 
stretched  in  front  of  the  fire.  Mrs.  Sandham, 
formerly  Kate  Barford,  is  working  at  a  baby's 
frock,  and  asking  now  and  then  the  advice  of  her 
sister,  who  is  frilling  a  little  cap.  (There  thef 
are,  Major.     Don't  tell  them  that  I  said  so.) 

"How  late  John  is  to-night,  Ellen  !"  says  old 
Mrs.  Barford,  from  her  place  in  the  chimney- 
corner.     (You  hear  her.  Major  ?) 

"Always  at  Christmas-time,  dear  mother," 
says  Ellen.  (There  she  is,  Major.)  "  Since  un- 
cle Crump's  death,  you  know,  John's  business  is 
trebled,  and  it  all  hangs  on  him,  dear  old  fel- 
low!" 

"He  will  be  late  for  supper,  Nelly,"  says  Sand- 
ham.    "  ( — Excuse  me,  Major.)" 

"No  he  won't,  Ned!"  cries  a  cheery  voice  at 
the  door  as  John  Mortiboy  appears;  "no  he 
won't.  He's  never  late  for  any  thing  good. 
Don't  you  know,  he's  a  practical  man  ?" 

— Mr.  Mortiboy,  Major  Jackman,  Major,  Mr. 
Mortiboy ! 


HOW  THE   THinO  FLOOR  KNEW  TUE    POTTERIES. 

I  AM  a  plain  man.  Major,  and  you  may  not 
dislike  to  hear  a  plain  statement  of  facts  from 
me.  Some  of  those  facts  lie  beyond  my  under- 
standing. I  do  not  pretend  to  explain  them.  I 
only  know  that  they  happened  as  I  relate  them, 
and  that  I  pledge  myself  for  the  truth  of  every 
word  of  them. 

I  began  life  roughly  enough,  down  among  the 
Potteries.  I  was  an  orphan ;  and  my  earliest 
recollections  are  of  a  great  porcelain  manufac- 
tory in  the  country  of  the  Potteries,  where  I 
helped  about  the  yard,  picked  up  what  halfpence 
fell  in  my  way.  and  slept  in  a  harness-loft  over 
the  stable.  Those  were  hard  times ;  but  things 
bettered  themselves  as  I  grew  older  and  stronger, 
especially  after  George  Barnard  had  come  to  be 
foreman  of  the  yard. 

George  Barnard  was  a  Wesleyan — wc^  were 
mostly  dissenters  in  the  Potteries — sober,  clear- 
headed, somewhat  sulky  and  silent,  but  a  good 
fellow  every  inch  of  him,  and  my  best  friend  at 
the  time  when  I  most  nee.led  a  good  friend.  He 
took  me  out  of  the  yard,  and  set  me  to  the  fur- 


MRS.  LIRUIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


85 


nace-work.  He  entered  me  on  the  books  at  a 
fixed  rate  of  wages.  He  helped  me  to  pay  for  a 
little  cheap  schooling  four  nights  a  week ;  and 
he  led  me  to  go  with  him  on  Sundays  to  the 
chapel  down  by  the  river-side,  where  I  first  saw 
Leah  Payne.  She  was  his  sweetheart,  and  so 
pretty  that  I  used  to  forget  the  preacher  and  ev- 
ery body  else,  when  I  looked  at  her.  When  she 
joined  in  the  singing,  I  heard  no  voice  but  hers. 
If  she  asked  me  for  the  hymn-book,  I  used  to 
blush  and  tremble.  I  believe  I  woi-shipped  her, 
in  my  stupid  ignorant  way ;  and  I  think  I  wor- 
shipped Barnard  almost  as  blindl)',  though  after 
a  different  fashion.  I  felt  I  owed  him  every 
thing.  I  knew  that  he  had  saved  me,  body  and 
mind ;  and  I  looked  up  to  him  as  a  savage  might 
look  up  to  a  missionary. 

Leah  was  the  daughter  of  a  plumber,  who  lived 
close  by  the  chapel.  She  was  twenty,  and  George 
about  seven  oreight-and-thirty.  Some  captious 
folks  said  there  was  too  much  difference  in  their 
ages ;  but  she  was  so  serious-minded,  and  they 
loved  each  other  so  earnestly  and  quietly,  that, 
if  nothing  had  come  between  them  during  their 
courtship,  I  don't  believe  the  question  of  dis- 
*parity  would  ever  have  troubled  the  happiness 
of  their  married  lives.  Something  did  come, 
however ;  and  that  somsthing  was  a  Frenchman, 
called  Louis  Laroche.  Ho  was  a  painter  on  por- 
celain, from  the  famous  works  at  Sevres;  and 
our  master,  it  was  said,  had  engaged  him  for 
three  years  certain,  at  such  wages  as  none  of 
our  own  people,  however  skilful,  could  hope  to 
command.  It  was  about  the  beginning  or  mid- 
dle of  September  when  he  first  came  among  us. 
He  looked  very  young;  was  small,  dark,  and 
well  made ;  had  little  white  soft  hands,  and  a 
silky  motistache ;  and  spoke  English  nearly  as 
well  as  I  do.  None  of  us  liked  him ;  but  that 
was  only  natural,  seeing  how  he  was  put  over 
the  head  of  every  Englishman  in  the  place. 
Besides,  though  he  was  alwnys  smiling  and  civil, 
we  couldn't  help  seeing  that  he  thought  himself 
ever  so  much  better  than  the  rest  of  us ;  and  that 
was  not  pleasant.  Neither  was  it  pleasant  to 
see  him  strolling  about  the  town,  dressed  just 
like  a  gentleman,  when  working  hours  were 
over ;  smoking  good  cigars,  when  we  were  forced 
to  be  content  with  a  pipe  of  common  tobacco ; 
hiring  a  horse  on  Sunday  afternoons,  when  we 
were  trudging  a-foot;  and  taking  his  pleasure 
as  if  the  world  was  made  for  him  to  enjoy,  and 
us  to  work  in. 

"  Ben,  boy,"  said  George,  "there's  something 
wrong  about  that  Frenchman." 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  and  we  were 
sitting  on  a  pile  of  empty  seggars  against  the 
door  of  the  furnace-room,  waiting  till  the  men 
should  all  have  cleared  out  of  the  yard.  Seg- 
gars  are  deep  earthen  boxc-s  in  which  the  pot- 
tery is  put,  while  being  fired  in  the  kiln. 

I  looked  up,  inquiringly. 

"About  the  Count?"  said  I,  for  that  was  the 
nickname  by  which  he  went  in  the  pottery, 

George  nodded,  and  paused  for  a  moment  with 
his  chin  resting  on  his  palms. 

"  He  has  an  evil  eye,"  said  he ;  "  and  a  false 
smile.     Something  wrong  about  him." 

I  drew  nearer,  and  listened  to  George  as  if  he 
had  been  an  oracle. 

"Beside?,"  added  he,  in  his  slow  quiet  way, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  straight  before  him  as  if  he 


was  thinking  aloud,  "  there's  a  young  look  abont 
him  that  isn't  natural.  Take  him  just  at  sight, 
and  you'd  think  he  was  almost  a  boy ;  but  look 
close  at  him — see  the  little  fine  wrinkles  under 
his  eyes,  and  the  hard  lines  about  his  mouth, 
and  then  tell  me  his  age,  if  you  can!  Why, 
Ben,  boy,  he's  as  old  as  I  am,  pretty  near ;  ay, 
and  as  strong,  too.  You  stare ;  but  I  tell  you 
that,  slight  as  he  looks,  he  could  fling  you  over 
his  shoulder  as  if  you  were  a  feather.  And  as 
for  his  hands,  little  and  white  as  they  are,  there 
are  muscles  of  iron  inside  them,  take  mv  word 
for  it." 

"But,  George,  how  can  you  know?" 

"  Because  I  have  a  warning  against  him,"  re- 
plied George,  very  gravely.  "Because,  when- 
ever he  is  by,  I  feel  as  if  my  eyes  saw  clearer, 
and  my  ears  heard  keener,  than  at  other  times. 
Maybe  it's  presumption,  but  I  sometimes  feel  as 
if  I  had  a  call  to  guard  myself  and  others  against 
him.  Look  at  the  children,  Ben,  how  they 
shrink  away  from  him ;  and  see  there,  now ! 
Ask  Captain  what  he  thinks  of  him !  Ben,  that 
dog  likes  him  no  better  than  I  do." 

I  looked,  and  saw  Captain  crouching  by  his 
kennel  with  his  ears  laid  back,  growling  audibly, 
as  the  Frenchman  came  slowly  down  the  steps 
leading  from  his  own  workshop  at  the  upper  end 
of  the  yard.  On  the  last  step  he  paused ;  lighted 
a  cigar ;  glanced  round,  as  if  to  see  whether  any 
one  was  by ;  and  then  walked  straight  over  to 
within  a  couple  of  yards  of  the  kennel.  Captain 
gave  a  short  angry  snarl,  and  laid  his  muzzle 
close  down  upon  his  paws,  ready  for  a  spring. 
The  Frenchman  folded  his  arms  deliberately, 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  dog,  and  stood  calmly 
smoking.  He  knew  exactly  how  far  he  dared 
go,  and  kept  just  that  one  foot  out  of  harm's 
way.  All  at  once  he  stooped,  puffed  a  mouthful 
of  smoke  in  the  dog's  eyes,  burst  into  a  mock- 
ing laugh,  turned  lightly  on  his  heel,  and  walked 
away ;  leaving  Captain  straining  at  his  chain, 
and  barking  after  him  like  a  mad  creature. 

Days  went  by,  and  I,  at  work  in  my  own  de- 
partment, saw  no  more  of  the  Count.  Sunday 
came — the  third,  I  think,  after  I  had  talked  with 
G«orge  in  the  yard.  Going  with  George  to 
chapel,  as  usual,  in  the  morning,  I  noticed  that 
there  was  something  gtrange  and  anxious  in  his 
face,  and  that  he  scarcely  opened  his  lips  to  me 
on  the  way.  Still  I  said  nothing.  It  was  not 
my  place  to  question  him:  and  I  remember 
thinking  to  myself  that  the  cloud  would  all  clear 
off  as  soon  as  he  found  himself  by  Leah's  side, 
holding  the  same  book,  and  joining  in  the  same 
hymn.  It  did  not,  however,  for  no  Leah  was 
there,  I  looked  every  moment  to  the  door,  ex- 
pecting to  see  her  sweet  face  coming  in  ;  but 
George  never  lifted  his  eyes  from  his  book,  or 
seemed  to  notice  that  her  place  was  empty.  Thus 
the  whole  sendee  went  by,  and  my  thoughts  wan- 
dered continually  from  the  words  of  the  preacher. 
As  soon  as  the  last  blessing  was  spoken,  and  wc 
were  fairly  across  the  threshold,  I  turned  to 
George,  and  asked  if  Leah  was  ill? 

"  No,"  said  he,  gloomily.     "  She's  not  ilL" 

"Then  why  wasn't  she — ?" 

"I'll  tell  you  why,"  he  interrupted,  impa- 
tiently. "  Because  you've  seen  her  here  for  the 
last  time.    She's  never  coming  to  chapel  again." 

"Never  coming  to  the  chapel  again?"  I  fal- 
tered, laying  my  hand  on  his  sleeve  in  the  earn- 


36 


MRS.  LIERIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


estness  of  my  surprise.  "  Why,  George,  what 
is  the  matter?" 

But  he  shook  my  hand  off,  and  stamped  with 
his  iron  heel  till  the  pavement  rang  again. 

"Don't  ask  me,"  said  he,  roughly.  "Let  me 
alone.     You'll  know  soon  enough." 

And  with  this  he  turned  off  down  a  by-lane 
leading  towards  the  hills,  and  left  me  without 
another  word. 

I  had  had  plenty  of  hard  treatment  in  my 
time ;  but  never,  until  that  moment,  an  angry 
look  or  syllable  from  George.  I  did  not  know 
how  to  bear  it.  That  day  my  dinner  seemed  as 
if  it  would  choke  me ;  and  in  the  afternoon  I 
went  out  and  wandered  restlessly  about  the  fields 
till  the  hour  for  evening  prayers  came  round.  I 
then  returned  to  the  chapel,  and  sat  down  on  a 
tomb  outside,  waiting  for  George.  I  saw  the 
congregation  go  in  by  twos  and  threes ;  I  heard 
the  first  psalm-tune  echo  solemnly  through  the 
evening  stillness  ;  but  no  George  came.  Then 
the  service  began,  and  I  knew  that,  punctual  as 
his  habits  were,  it  was  of  no  use  to  expect  him 
any  longer.  Where  could  he  be  ?  What  could 
have  happened  ?  Why  should  Leah  Payne  never 
come  to  chapel  again  ?  Had  she  gone  over  to 
some  other  sect,  and  was  that  why  George  seemed 
so  unhappy  ? 

Sitting  there  in  the  little  dreary  churchyard 
with  the  darkness  fast  gathering  around  me,  I 
asked  myself  these  questions  over  and  over  again, 
till  my  brain  ached ;  for  I  was  not  much  used 
to  thinking  about  anything  in  those  times.  At 
last,  I  could  bear  to  sit  quiet  no  longer.  The 
sudden  thought  struck  me  that  I  would  go  to 
Leah,  and  learn  what  the  matter  was,  from  her 
own  lips.  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  and  set  off  at 
once  towards  her  home. 

It  was  quite  dark,  and  a  light  rain  was  begin- 
ning to  fall.  I  found  the  garden-gate  open,  and 
a  quick  hope  flashed  across  me  that  George 
might  be  there.  I  drew  back  for  a  moment, 
hesitating  whether  to  knock  or  ring,  when  a 
sound  of  voices  in  the  passage,  and  the  sudden 
gleaming  of  a  bright  line  of  light  under  the  door, 
warned  me  that  some  one  was  coming  out. 
Taken  by  surprise,  and  quite  unprepared  for  the 
moment  with  anything  to  say,  I  shrank  back  be- 
hind the  porch,  and  waited  until  those  within 
should  have  passed  out.  The  door  opened,  and 
the  light  streamed  suddenly  upon  the  roses  and 
the  wet  gravel. 

"It  rains,"  said  Leah,  bending  forward  and 
shading  the  candle  with  her  hand. 

"And  is  as  cold  as  Siberia,"  added  another 
voice,  which  was  not  George's,  and  yet  sounded 
strangely  familiar.  "Ugh!  what  a  climate  for 
such  a  flower  as  my  darling  to  bloom  in !" 

"  Is  it  so  much  finer  in  France  ?"  asked  Leah, 
softly. 

"As  much  finer  as  blue  skies  a'nd  sunshine 
can  make  it.  Why,  my  angel,  even  your  bright 
ayes  will  be  ten  times  brighter,  and  your  rosy 
cheeks  ten  times  rosier,  when  they  are  trans- 
planted to  Paris.  Ah !  I  can  give  you  no  idea 
of  the  wonders  of  Paris — the  broad  streets  plant- 
ed with  trees,  the  palaces,  the  shops,  the  gar- 
dens ! — it  is  a  city  of  enchantment." 

"  It  must  be,  indeed  I"  said  Leah.  "  And  you 
will  really  take  me  to  see  all  those  beautiful 
shops?" 

"Every   Sunday,  my   darling — Bah!    don't 


I  look  so  shocked.  The  shops  in  Paris  are  always 
;  open  on  Sunday,  and  everybody  makes  holiday. 
You  will  soon  get  over  these  prejudices." 

"I  fear  it  is  very  wrong  to  take  so  much 
pleasure  in  the  things  of  this  world,"  sighed 
Leah. 

The  Frenchman  laughed  and  answered  her 
with  a  kiss. 

"Good  night,  my  sweet  little  saint!"  and  he 
ran  lightly  down  the  path,  and  disappeared  in 
the  darkness.  Leah  sighed  again,  lingered  a 
moment,  and  then  closed  the  door. 

Stupefied  and  bewildered,  I  stood  for  some 
seconds  like  a  stone  statue,  unable  to  move; 
scarcely  able  to  think.  At  length,  I  roused  my- 
self, as  it  were  mechanically,  and  went  towards 
the  gate.  At  that  instant  a  heavy  hand  was 
laid  upon  my  shoulder,  and  a  hoarse  voice  close 
beside  my  eai^  said : 

"Who  are  you?  What  are  you  doing  here?" 

It  was  George.  I  knew  him  at  once,  in  spite 
of  the  darkness,  and  stammered  his  name.  He 
took  his  hand  quickly  fi-om  my  shoulder. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?"  said  he, 
fiercely.  "What  right  have  you  to  lurk  about, 
like  a  spy  in  the  dark?  God  help  me,  Ben — 
I'm  half  mad.    I  don't  mean  to  be  harsh  to  you." 

"I'm  sure  you  don't,"  I  cried,  earnestly. 

"It's  that  cursed  Frenchman,"  he  went  on, 
in  a  voice  that  sounded  like  the  groan  of  one  in 
pain.  "He's  a  villain.  I  know  he's  a  villain; 
and  I've  had  a  warning  against  him  ever  since 
the  first  moment  he  came  among  us.  He'll 
make  her  miserable,  and  break  her  heart  some 
day — my  pretty  Leah — and  I  loved  her  so !  But 
I'll  be  revenged —  as  sure  as  there's  a  sun  in 
heaven,  I'll  be  revenged !" 

His  vehemence  terrified  me.  I  tried  to  per- 
suade him  to  go  home ;  but  he  would  not  listen 
to  me. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said.  "  Go  home  yourself,  boy, 
and  let  me  be.  My  blood  is  on  fire :  this  rain 
is  good  for  me,  and  I  am  better  alone." 

"If  I  could  only  do  something  to  help 
you " 

"You  can't,"  interrupted  he.  "Nobody  can 
help  me.  I'm  a  ruined  man,  and  I  don't  care 
what  becomes  of  me.  The  Lord  forgive  me ! 
my  heart' is  full  of  wickedness,  and  my  thoughts 
are  the  promptings  of  Satan.  There  go — for 
Heaven's  sake,  go.  I  don't  know  what  I  say,  or 
what  I  do!" 

I  went,  for  I  did  not  dare  refuse  any  longer ; 
but  I  lingered  awhile  at  the  corner  of  the  street, 
and  watched  him  pacing  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro 
in  the  driving  rain.  At  length  I  turned  reluct- 
antly away,  and  went  home. 

I  lay  awake  that  night  for  hours,  thinking  over 
the  events  of  the  day,  and  hating  the  Frenchman 
from  my  very  soul.  I  could  not  hate  Leah.  I 
had  worshipped  her  too  long  and  too  faithfully 
for  that ;  but  I  looked  upon  her  as  a  creature 
given  over  to  destruction.  I  fell  asleep  towards 
morning,  and  woke  again  shortly  after  daybreak. 
When  I  reached  the  pottery,  I  found  George 
there  before  me,  looking  very  pale,  but  quite 
himself,  and  setting  the  men  to  their  work  the 
same  as  usual.  I  said  nothing  about  what  had 
happened  the  day  before.  Something  in  his 
face  silenced  me ;  but  seeing  him  so  steady  and 
composed,  I  took  heart  and  began  to  hope  he 
had  fought  through  the  worst  of  his  trouble. 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


37 


By-and-by  the  Frenchman  came  through  the 
yard,  gay  and  off-hand,  with  his  cigar  in  his 
mouth,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  George 
turned  sharply  away  into  one  of  the  workshops, 
and  shut  the  door.  I  drew  a  deep  breath  of  re- 
lief. My  dread  was  to  see  them  come  to  an 
open  quarrel ;  and  I  felt  that  as  long  as  they 
kept  clear  of  that,  all  would  be  well. 

Thus  the  Monday  went  by,  and  the  Tuesday ; 
and  still  George  kept  aloof  from  me.  I  had 
sense  enough  not  to  be  hurt  by  this.  I  felt  he 
had  a  good  right  to  be  silent,  if  silence  helped 
him  to  bear  his  trial  better ;  and  I  made  tip  my 
mind  never  to  breathe  another  syllable  on  the 
subject,  unless  he  began; 

Wednesday  came. '  I  had  overslept  myself 
that  morning,  and  came  to  work  a  quarter  after 
the  hour,  expecting  to  be  fined ;  for  George  was 
very  strict  as  foreman  of  the  yard,  and  treated 
friends  and  enemies  just  the  same.  Instead  of 
blaming  me,  however,  he  called  me  up,  and  said: 

"Ben,  whose  turn  is  it  this  week  to  sit  up?" 

"  Mine,  sir,"  I  replied.  (I  always  called  him 
*'  Sir"  in  working  hours.) 

"Well,  then,  you  may  go  home  to-day,  and 
the  same  on  Thursday  and  Friday ;  for  there's 
a  large  batch  of  work  for  the  ovens  to-night,  and 
there'll  be  the  same  to-morrow  night  and  the 
night  after." 

"All  right,  sir,"  said  I.  "Then  I'll  be  here 
by  seven  this  evening." 

"  No,  half-past  nine  will  be  soon  enough.  I've 
some  accounts  to  make  up,  and  I  shall  be  here 
myself  till  then.  Mind  you  are  true  to  time, 
though." 

"I'll  be  as  true  as  the  clock,  sir,"  I  replied, 
and  was  turning  away  when  he  called  me  back 
again. 

"  You're  a  good  lad,  Ben,"  said  he.  "  Shake 
hands." 

I  seized  his  hand,  and  pressed  it  warmly. 

"If  I'm  good  for  anything,  George,"  I  an- 
swered with  all  my  heart,  "it's  you  who  have 
made  me  so.     God  bless  you  for  it !" 

"Amen!"  said  he,  in  a  troubled  voice,  put- 
ting his  hand  to  his  bat. 

And  so  we  parted. 

In  general,  I  went  to  bed  by  day  when  I  was 
attending  to  the  firing  by  night ;  but  this  morn- 
ing I  had  already  slept  longer  than  usual,  and 
wanted  exercise  more  than  rest.  So  I  ran  home; 
put  a  bit  of  bread  and  meat  in  my  pocket ; 
snatched  up  my  big  thorn  stick;  and  started  off 
for  a  long  day  in  the  country.  "When  I  came 
home,  it  was  quite  dark  and  beginning  to  rain, 
just  as  it  had  begun  to  rain  at  about  the  same 
time  that  wretched  Sunday  evening:  so  I 
changed  my  wet  boots,  had  an  early  supper  and 
a  nap  in  the  chimney-corner,  and  went  down  to 
the  works  at  a  few  minutes  before  half-past  nine. 
Arriving  at  the  factory  gate,  I  found  it  ajar,  and 
so  walked  in  and  closed  it  after  me.  I  remem- 
ber thinking  at  the  time  that  it  was  unlike 
Greorge's  usual  caution  to  leave  it  so;  but  it 
passed  from  my  mind  next  moment.  Having 
slipped  in  the  bolt,  I  then  went  straight  over  to 
George's  little  counting-house,  where  the  gas 
was  shining  cheerfully  in  the  window.  Here 
also,  somewhat  to  my  surprise,  I  found  the  door 
open,  and  the  room  empty.  I  went  in.  The 
threshold  and  part  of  the  floor  was  wetted  by  the 
driving  rain.     The  wages-book  was  open  on  the 


desk,  George's  pen  stood  in  the  ink,  and  his  hat 
hung  on  its  usual  peg  in  the  comer.  I  con- 
cluded, of  course,  that  he  had  gone  round  to  the 
ovens ;  so,  following  him,  I  took  down  his  hat 
and  carried  it  with  me,  for  it  was  now  raining 
fast. 

The  baking-honses  lay  just  opposite,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  yard.  There  were  three  of 
them,  opening  one  out  of  the  other;  and  in 
each,  the  great  furnace  filled  all  the  middle  of 
the  room.  These  furnaces  are,  in  fact,  large 
kilns  built  of  brick,  with  an  oven  closed  in  by  an 
iron  door  in  the  centre  of  each,  and  a  chimney 
going  up  through  the  roof.  I'he  pottery,  en- 
closed in  seggars,  stands  round  inside  on  shelves, 
and  has  to  be  turned  from  time  to  time  while 
the  firing  is  going  on.  To  turn  these  seggars, 
test  the  heat,  and  keep  the  fire^  up,  was  my 
work  at  the  period  of  which  I  am  now  telling 
yon.  Major. 

Well !  I  went  through  the  baking-houses  one 
after  the  other,  and  found  all  empty  alike.  Then 
a  strange  vague  uneasy  feeling  came  over  me, 
and  I  began  to  wonder  what  could  have  become 
of  George.  It  was  possible  that  he  might  be 
in  one  of  the  workshops ;  so  I  ran  over  to  the 
counting-house,  lighted  a  lantern,  and  made  a 
thorough  survey  of  the  yards.  I  tried  the  doors ; 
they  were  all  locked  as. usual.  I  peeped  into 
the  open  sheds ;  they  were  all  vacant.  I  called 
"George!  George!"  in  every  part  of  the  outer 
premises ;  but  the  wind  and  rain  drove  back  my 
voice,  and  no  other  voice  replied  to  it.  Forced 
at  last  to  believe  that  he  was  really  gone,  I  took 
his  hat  back  to  the  counting-house,  put  away  the 
wages-book,  extinguished  the  gas,  and  prepared 
for  my  solitary  watch. 

The  night  was  mild,  and  the  heat  in  the  bak- 
ing-rooms intense.  I  knew,  by  experience,  that 
the  ovens  had  been  overheated,  and  that  none 
of  the  porcelain  must  go  in  at  least  for  the  next 
two  hours;  so  I  carried  my  stool  to  the  door, 
settled  myself  in  a  sheltered  comer  where  the 
air  could  reach  me,  but  not  the  rain,  and  fell  to 
wondering  where  George  could  have  gone,  and 
why  he  should  not  have  waited  till  the  time  ap-' 
pointed.  That  he  had  left  in  haste  was  clear — 
not  because  his  hat  remained  behind,  for  he 
might  have  had  a  cap  with  him — but  because  he 
had  left  the  book  open,  and  the  gas  lighted. 
Perhaps  one  of  the  workmen  had  met  with  some 
accident,  and  he  had  been  summoned  away  so 
urgently  that  he  had  no  time  to  think  of  any- 
thing; perhaps  he  would  even  now  come  back 
presently  to  see  that  all  was  riglit  before  he 
went  home  to  his  lodgings.  "Turning  these 
things  over  in  my  mind,  I  grew  drowsy,  my 
thoughts  wandered,  and  I  fell  asleep. 

I  cannot  tell  how  long  my  nap  lasted.  I  had 
walked  a  great  distance  that  day,  and  I  slept 
heaAnly ;  but  I  awoke  all  in  a  moment,  with  a 
sort  of  terror  upon  me,  and,  looking  up,  saw 
George  Barnard  sitting  on  a  stool  before  the  oven 
door,  with  the  firelight  full  upon  his  face. 

Ashamed  to  be  found  sleeping,  I  started  to  my 
feet.  At  the  same  instant,  he  rose,  turned  away 
without  even  looking  towards  me,  and  went  oat 
into  the  next  room. 

"Don't  be  angry,  George,"  I  cried,  following 
him.  "None  of  the  seggars  are  in.  I  knew 
the  fires  were  too  strong,  and " 

The  words  died  on  my  lips.     I  had  followed 


88 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


him  from  the  first  room  to  the  second,  from  the 
second  to  the  third,  and  iu  tlie  third — I  lost 
him! 

I  could  not  believe  my  eyes.  I  opened  the 
end  door  leading  into  the  yard,  and  looked  out ; 
but  he  was  nowhere  in  sight.  I  went  round  to 
the  back  of  the  baking-houses,  looked  behind  the 
furnaces,  ran  over  to  the  counting-house,  called 
him  by  his  name  over  and  over  again ;  but  all 
was  dark,  silent,  lonely,  as  ever. 

Then  I  remembered  how  I  had  bolted  the 
outer  gate,  and  how  impossible  it  was  that  he 
should  have  come  in  without  ringing.  Then, 
too,  I  began  again  to  doubt  the  evidence  of  my 
own  senses,  and  to  think  I  must  have  been 
dreaming. 

I  went  back  to  my  old  post  by  the  door  of  the 
first  baking-house,  and  sat  down  for  a  moment 
to  collect  my  thoughts. 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  I  to  myself,  "there 
is  but  one  outer  gate.  That  outer  gate  I  bolted 
on  the  inside,  and  it  is  bolted  still.  In  the  next 
place,  I  searched  the  premises,  and  found  all  the 
sheds  empty,  and  the  workshop-doors  padlocked 
as  usual  on  the  outside.  I  proved  that  George 
was  nowhere  about,  when  I  came,  aud  I  know 
he  could  not  have  come  in  since,  without  my 
knowledge.  Therefore  it  is  a  dream.  It  is  cer- 
tainly a  dream,  and  there's  an  end  of  it." 

And  with  this  I  trimmed  my  lantern  and  pro- 
ceeded to  test  the  temperature  of  the  furnaces. 
We  used  to  do  this,  I  should  tell  you,  by  the  in- 
troduction of  little  roughly-moulded  lumps  of 
common  fire-clay.  If  the  heat  is  too  great,  they 
crack ;  if  too  little,  they  remain  damp  and  moist ; 
if  just  right,  they  become  firm  and  smooth  all 
over,  and  pass  into  the  biscuit  stage.  Well,  I 
took  my  three  little  lumps  of  clay,  put  one  in 
each  oven,  waited  while  I  counted  five  hundred, 
and  then  went  round  again  to  see  the  results. 
The  two  first  were  in  capital  condition,  the  third 
had  fiown  into  a  dozen  pieces.  This  proved  that 
the  seggare  might  at  once  go  into  ovens  One  and 
Two,  but  that  number  Three  Iiad  been  overlieat- 
ed,  and  must  be  allowed  to  go  on  cooling  for  an 
hour  or  two  longer. 

I  therefore  stocked  One  and  Two  with  nine 
rows  of  seggars,  three  deep  on  each  shelf;  left 
the  rest  waiting  till  number  Three  was  in  a  con- 
dition to  be  trusted ;  and,  fearful  of  falling  asleep 
again,  now  that  the  firing  was  in  progress,  walk- 
ed up  and  down  the  rooms  to  keep  myself  awake. 
This  was  hot  work,  however,  and  I  could  not 
stand  it  very,  long ;  so  I  went  back  presently  to 
my  stool  by  the  door,  and  fell  to  thinking  about 
my  dream.  The  more  I  thought  of  it,  the  more 
strangely  real  it  seemed,  and  the  more  I  felt 
convinced  that  I  was  actually  on  my  feet,  when 
I  saw  George  get  up  and  walk  into  the  adjoin- 
ing room.  I  was  also  certain  that  I  had  still 
continued  to  see  him  as  he  passed  out  of  the  sec- 
ond room  into  the  third,  and  that  at  that  time  I 
was  even  following  his  very  footsteps.  Was  it 
pos>ible,  I  asked  myself,  that  I  could  have  been 
up  and  moving,  and  yet  not  quite  awake?  I 
had  heard  of  people  walking  in  their  sleep. 
Could  it  be  tliat  I  was  walking  in  mine,  and 
never  waked  till  I  reached  the  cool  air  of  the 
yard  ?  All  this  seemed  likely  enough,  so  I  dis- 
missed the  matter  from  my  mind,  and  passed  the 
rest  of  the  night  in  attending  to  the  seggars, 
adding  fresh  fuel  from  time  to  time  to  the  fur- 


naces of  the  first  and  second  ovens,  and  now  and 
then  taking  a  turn  through  the  yards.  As  for 
Number  Three,  it  kept  up  its  heat  to  such  a  de- 
gree that  it  was  almost  day  before  I  dared  trust 
the  seggars  to  go  in  it. 

Thus  the  hours  went  by ;    and  at  half-past 

seven  on  Thursday  morning,  the  men  came  to 

their  work.    It  was  now  my  turn  to  go  oft' duty, 

but  I  wanted  to  see  George  before  I  left,  and  so 

waited  for  him  in  the  counting-house,  while  a 

lad  named  Steve  Storr  took  my  place  at  the 

I  ovens.     But  the  clock  went  on  from  lialf-past 

I  seven   to    a   quarter   to   eight ;   then   to    eight 

o'clock ;  then  to  a  quarter-past  eight — and  siill 

I  George  never  made  his  appearance.    At  length, 

when  the  hand  got  round  to  half-past  eight,  I 

grew  weary  of  waiting,  took  up   my  hat,  ran 

home,  went  to  bed,  and  slept  profoundly  until 

past  four  in  the  afternoon. 

That  evening  I  went  down  to  the  factory  quite 
early ;  for  I  had  a  restlessness  upon  me,  and  I 
wanted  to  see  George  before  he  left  for  the  night. 
This  time  I  found  the  gate  bolted,  and  I  rang 
for  admittance. 

"How  early  you  are,  Ben!"  said  Steve  Storr, 
as  he  let  me  in. 

"Mr.  Barnard's  not  gone?"  I  asked,  quickly, 
for  I  saw  at  the  first  glance  that  the  gas  was  out 
in  the  counting-house. 

"He's  not  gone,"  said  Steve,  "because  he's 
never  been." 

"Never  been?" 

"No ;  and  what's  stranger  still,  he's  not  been 
home  either,  since  dinner  yesterday." 

"But  he  was  here  last  night?" 

"Oh  yes,  he  was  here  last  night,  making  up 
the  books.  John  Parker  was  with  him  till  past 
six ;  and  you  found  him  here,  didn't  you,  at  half- 
past  nine  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Well,  he's  gone,  anyhow.     Good  night !" 

"Goodnight!" 

I  took  the  lantern  from  his  hand,  bolted  him 
out  mechanically,  and  made  my  way  to  the  bak- 
ing-houses like  one  in  a  stupor.  George  gone? 
Gone  without  a  word  of  warning  to  his  employer, 
or  of  farewell  to  his  fellow-workmen  ?  I  could 
not  understand  it.  I  could  not  believe  it.  I  sat 
down  bewildered,  incredulous,  stunned.  Then 
!  came  hot  tears,  doubts,  terrifying  suspicions.  I 
j  remembered  the  wild  words  he  had  spoken  a  few 
nights  back ;  t'o  strange  calm  by  which  they 
I  were  followed  ;  my  dream  of  the  evening  before. 
I  had  heard  of  men  who  drowned  themselves  for 
I  love;  and  the  turbid  Severn  ran  close  by  —  so 
close,  that  one  might  pitch  a  stone  into  it  from 
some  of  the  workshop  windows. 

These  thoughts  were  too  horrible.  I  dared 
not  dwell  upon  them.  I  turned  to  work,  to 
free  myself  from  them,  if  I  could ;  and  began  by 
examining  the  ovens.  The  temjjerature  of  all 
was  much  higher  than  on  the  previous  night,  the 
heat  having  been  gradually  increased  during  the 
last  twelve  hours.  It  was  now  my  business  to 
keep  the  heat  on  the  increase  for  twelve  more  ; 
after  which  it  would  be  allowed,  as  gradually, 
to  subside,  until  the  pottery  was  cool  enough  for 
removal.  To  turn  the  seggars,  and  add  fuel  to 
the  two  first  furnaces,  was  my  first  work.  As  be- 
fore, I  found  number  three  in  advance  of  the 
others,  and  so  left  it  for  half  an  hour,  or  an 
hour.     I  then  went  round  the  yard ;  tried  the 


MKS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


39 


doors ;  let  the  dog  loose ;  and  brought  him  back 
with  mo  to  tiie  baking  -  houses,  for  company. 
After  that  I  set  my  lantern  on  a  shelf  beside  the 
door,  took  a  book  from  my  pocket,  and  began 
to  read. 

I  remember  the  title  of  the  book  as  well  as 
possible.  It  was  called  Bowlker's  Art  of  An- 
gling, and  contained  little  rude  cuts  of  all  kinds 
of  artificial  flies,  hooks,  and  other  tackle.  But 
I  could  not  keep  my  mind  to  it  for  two  minutes 
together;  and  at  last  I  gave  it  up  in  despair, 
covered  my  face  with  my  hands,  and  fell  into  a 
long  absorbing  painful  train  of  thought.  A 
considerable  time  had  gone  by  thus — maybe  an 
hour — when  I  was  roused  by  a  low  whimpering 
howl  from  Captain,  who  was  lying  at  my  feet. 
I  looked  up  with  a  start,  just  as  I  had  started 
the  night  before,  and  with  the  same  vague  ter- 
ror; and  saw,  exactly  in  the  same  place  and  in 
the  same  attitude,  with  the  firelight  full  upon  him 
— George  Barnard ! 

At  this  sight,  a  fear  heavier  than  the  fear  of 
death  fell  upon  me,  and  my  tongue  seemed 
paralysed  in  my  mouth.  Then,  just  as  last 
night,  he  rose,  or  seemed  to  rise,  and  went  slow- 
ly out  into  the  next  room.  A  power  stronger 
than  myself  appeared  to  compel  me,  reluctantly, 
to  follow  him.  I  saw  him  pass  through  the  sec- 
ond room — cross  the  threshold  of  the  third  room 
— walk  straight  up  to  the  oven — and  there  pause. 
He  then  turned,  for  the  first  time,  with  the 
glare  of  the  red  firelight  pouring  out  upon  him 
from  the  open  door  of  the  furnace,  and  looked 
at  me,  face  to  face.  In  the  same  instant  his 
whole  frame  and  countenance  seemed  to  glow 
and  become  transparent,  as  if  the  fire  were  all 
within  him  and  around  him — and  in  that  glow 
he  became,  as  it  were,  absorbed  into  the  furnace, 
and  disappeared ! 

I  uttered  a  wild  cry,  tried  to  stagger  from  the 
room,  and  fell  insensible  before  I  reached  the 
door. 

When  I  next  opened  my  ej'es  the  gray  dawn 
was  in  the  sky ;  the  furnace  doors  were  all 
closed  as  I  had  left  them  when  I  last  went  round  ; 
the  dog  was  quietly  sleeping  not  far  from  my 
side  ;  and  the  man  were  ringing  at  the  gate,  to  be 
let  in. 

I  told  my  tale  from  beginning  to  end,  and 
was  lauglied  at,  as  a  matter  of  course,  by  all 
who  heard  it.  When  it  was  found,  'however, 
that  my  statements  never  varied,  and,  above  all, 
that  George  Barnard  continued  absent,  some 
few  began  to  talk  it  over  seriously,  and  among 
those  few  the  master  of  the  works.  He  forbade 
the  furnace  to  be  cleared  out,  called  in  the  aid 
of  a  celebrated  naturalist,  and  had  the  ashes  sub- 
mitted to  a  scientific  examination.  The  result 
was  as  follows : 

The  ashes  were  found  to  have  been  largely 
saturated  with  some  kind  of  fatty  animal  matter. 
A  considerable  portion  of  those  ashes  consisted 
of  charred  bone.  A  semi-circular  piece  of  iron, 
which  evidently  had  once  been  the  heel  of  a 
workman's  heavy  boot,  was  found,  half  fused,  at 
one  corner  of  the  furnace.  Near  it  a  tibia  bone, 
which  still  retained  sufficient  of  its  original  form 
and  texture  to  render  identification  possible. 
This  bone,  however,  was  so  much  charred,  that 
it  fell  into  powder  on  being  handled. 

After  this,   not  many  doubted  that  George 


Barnard  had  been  foully  murdered,  and  that  his 
i  body  had  been  thrust  into  the  furnace.  Sus- 
picion fell  upon  Louis  Laroche.  He  was  ar- 
rested, a  coroner's  inquest  was  held,  and  every 
circumstance  connected  with  the  night  of  the 
murder  was  as  thoroughly  sifted  and  investi- 
gated as  possible.  All  the  sifting  in  the  world, 
however,  failed  either  to  clear  or  to  condemn 
Louis  Laroche.  On  the  very  night  of  his  re- 
lease he  left  the  place  by  the  mail  train,  and 
was  never  seen  or  heard  of  there  again.  As 
for  Leah,  I  know  not  what  became  of  her.  I 
went  away  myself  before  many  weeks  were  over, 
and  never  have  set  foot  among  the  Potteries  from 
that  hour  to  this. 


VI. 

now  THE   BEST  ATHC  WAS   CNDEB  A  CLOITD. 

Major,  you  have  assured  me  of  yonr  sympa- 
thy; you  shall  receive  my  confidence.  I  not 
only  seem — as  you  have  searchingly  obser^•ed — 
"under  a  cloud,"  but  I  am.  I  entered  (shall  1 
say  like  a  balloon?)  into  a  dense  stratum  of 
cloud,  obscuring  the  wretched  earth  from  view, 
in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  dash,  in  the 
sweet  summer  season,  when  nature,  as  has  been 
remarked  by  some  distinguished  poet,  puts  on 
her  gayest  garb,  and  when  her  countenance  is 
adorned  with  the  sunniest  and  loveliest  of  smiles. 
Ah  !  what  are  now  those  smiles  to  me?  What 
care  I  for  sunshine  or  for  verdure?  For  mo, 
summer  is  no  more.  For,  I  must  ever  remem- 
ber that  it  was  in  the  summer  that  the  canker 
ate  its  way  into  my  heart's  core — that  it  was  in 
the  summer  that  I  parted  with  my  belief  in  man- 
kind— that  it  was  in  summer  that  I  knew  for 
the  first  time  that  womax — but  this  is  premature. 
Pray  be  seated. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  my  appearance  and 
words  convey  to  you.  Major,  and  to  all  observant 
persons,  that  I  have  an  elevated  soul.  In  fact, 
were  it  otherwise,  how  coidd  I  be  under  a  cloud  ? 
The  sordid  soul  won't  blight.  To  one  possess- 
ing an  elevated  soul  like  myself,  the  task  of 
keeping  accounts  at  a  furrier's  (in  a  large  way) 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  repugnant.  It  was 
repugnant,  and  the  rapture  of  getting  a  holiday, 
which  was  annually  accorded  me  in  June — not 
a  busy  month  in  the  fur-trade — was  something 
perfectly  indescribable.  Of  course,  whenever 
my  vacation  time  came  round,  I  invariably 
rushed  off  to  the  country  ;  there  to  indulge  my 
natural  tastes  and  commune  with  our  mother, 
Nature. 

On  the  particular  occasion  of  which  I  have 
now  to  speak,  I  had,  however,  other  commun- 
ings to  look  forward  to,  besides  those  in  which 
nature  takes  her  silent  yet  eloquent  part.  I 
loved — Aha! — Love — Woman — Vertigo — De- 
spair— I  beg  your  pardon — I  will  be  calm.  I 
loved  Miss  Nuttlebury.  Miss  Nuttlebury  lived  . 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Dart.ford(at  a  convenient 
distance  from  the  Powder-Mills),  so  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Dartford  (rather  further  from  the 
Powder-Mills)  I  determined  to  spend  my  vaca- 
tion. I  made  arrangements  at  a  certain  small 
roadside  inn  for  my  board  and  lodging. 

I  was  acquainted  —  nay,  I  was  on  friendly 
terms — with  the  Nuttleburys.     Mr.  Nuttlebury, 


40 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


a  land  sun-cyor  in  a  rather  small  way,  was  an 
old  friend  of  my  father's ;  so  I  had  access  to  the 
house.  I  had  access  also,  as  I  thought,  to  the 
heart  of  Mary,  which  was  Miss  Nuttlebury's 
name.  If  I  was  mistaken — Aha! — but  I  am 
again  premature.  You  are  aware,  or  perhaps 
you  are  not  aware,  that  my  name  is  Oliver  Crom- 
well Shrnbsole — so  called  after  the  great  Pro- 
tector of  British  rights ;  the  man  who,  or  rather 
but  for  whom — but  I  anT again  premature,  or 
rather,  I  should  say,  on  the  whole  the  reverse. 

The  first  days  of  my  residence  near  Fordleigh, 
the  name  of  the  village  where  the  Nettleburj-s 
dwelt,  were  happy  in  the  extreme.  I  saw  much 
of  Mary.  I  walked  with  Mary,  made  hay  with 
Marj',  observed  the  moon  in  Mary's  society,  and 
in  vain  sought  to  interest  Mary  in  those  mys- 
terious shadows  which  diversify  the  surfoce  of 
that  luminary.  I  subsequently  endeavoured  to 
interest  the  fair  girl  in  other  matters  nearer 
home — in  sliort,  in  myself;  and  I  fondly  imag- 
ined that  I  succeeded  in  doing  so. 

One  day,  when  I  had  dropped  in  at  the  family 
dinner-hour — not  from  base  motives,  for  I  was 
boarded  at  my  inn  by  contract — I  found  the  fam- 
ily conversing  on  a  subject  which  caused  me 
considerable  uneasiness.  At  the  moment  of  my 
arrival,  Mr.  Nettlebury  was  uttering  these  words : 

"At  what  time  will  he  be  here,  then?" 
(He?) 

I  listened  breathless,  after  the  first  salutation 
had  passed,  for  more ;  I  was  not  long  in  ascer- 
taining that  "he"  was  a  cousin  of  Mary's,  who 
was  coming  down  to  spend  some  days  at-Ford- 
leigh,  and  whose  arrival  was  anticipated  by  the 
XN'hole  family  with  expressions  of  delight.  The 
younger  boy  and  girl  Nuttleburys  seemed  to  be 
especially  rapturous  at  the  prospect  of  the  Beast's 
arrival,  and  from  this  I  angured  ill.  Altogether, 
I  felt  that  there  was  a  trying  scene  coming ;  that 
my  opportunities  of  converse  with  my  soul's  idol 
would  be  fewer  than  they  had  been,  and  that 
general  discomfort  and  misery  were  about  to  en- 
sue.    I  was  right. 

Oho ! — I  beg  your  pardon — I  will  be  calm. 

The  Beast,  "He,"  arrived  in  the  course  of 
that  very  afternoon,  and  I  believe  I  am  not 
speaking  too  strongly  in  afiinning  that  we — "  he" 
and  I — hated  each  other  cordially  from  the  first 
moment  of  our  exohanging  glances.  He  was 
an  under-hand  looking  beast,  short  of  statui-e ; 
Buch  a  creature  as  any  high-souled  woman  should 
have  abhorred  the  sight  of;  but  his  prospects 
•were  good,  he  having  some  small  situation  in  the 
Custom-house,  on  the  strength  of  which,  he  gave 
himself  airs,  as  if  he  was  a  member  of  the  gov- 
ernment ;  and  when  he  talked  of  the  countiy, 
he  spoke  of  it  as  "we."  Alas!  how  could  I 
compete  with  him  ?  What  could  I  talk  about, 
except  the  fur-trade,  and  the  best  method  of 
keeping  the  moths  under?  So,  having  nothing 
to  talk  about,  I  remained  sulky  and  glum  and 
silent :  a  condition  in  which  a  man  does  not 
usually  tell  to  advantage  in  society.  I  felt  that 
I  was  not  telling  to  advantage,  and  this  made 
me  hate  the  beast — whose  disgusting  name  was  { 
Iluffell — more  cordially  than  before.  It  afibrds 
me  a  gloomy  pleasure  to  think  that  I  never  once 
lost  an  opportunity  of  contradicting  him — flat — 
in  the  course  of  that  first  evening.  But,  some- 
how or  other,  he  generally  got  the  best  of  it : 
possibly  because  I  had  contradicted  him  for  the 


sake  of  doing  so,  and  without  bestowing  a 
thought  upon  the  riglits  or  wrongs  of  the  mat- 
ter under  discussion.  But  the  worst  of  it  was, 
that  it  did  appear  to  me  that  IMary — my  Mary — 
seemed  to  be  on  the  side  of  Huffcll.  Her  eyes 
would  brighten — or  I  thought  so — when  'he 
triumphed.  And  what  right  liad  she  to  go  and 
fig  herself  out  like  that,  in  all  her  finery  for 
Huffell  ?     She  never  did  so  for  me. 

"This  must  be  put  a  stop  to,  and  promptly," 
I  muttered  to  myself,  as  I  walked  back  to  my 
inn  in  a  state  of  the  most  intense  fury.  And 
to  leave  him  there  with  the  field  all  to  himself! 
What  might  he  not  be  saying  of  me  at  that  mo- 
ment ?  Turning  me  into  ridicule,  perhaps  ?  I 
resolved  to  crush  him  next  day,  or  perish  in  the 
attempt. 

Next  day  I  lay  in  wait  for  him,  and  presently 
I  thought  my  opportunity  had  come. 

"We  shall  have  to  make  some  change  about 
that  appointment  of  Sir  Cornelius,"  saidHuflfell, 
"  or  he'll  have  all  his  family  in  the  oflice  in  a 
week." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  we  f  "  I  asked,  with 
ferocious  emphasis. 

"I  mean  government,"  he  answered,  coolly. 

"Well  but  you're  not  government,"  was  my 
dignified  reply.  "The  Custom-house,  even  as 
represented  by  those  who  hold  high  positions 
in  it,  has  as  little  to  do  with  governing  the  coun- 
try as  can  well  be  imagined.  The  higher  offi- 
cials in  the  Custom-house  are  at  best  rather 
government  servants  than  govei'nment  advisers, 
while  the  lower — " 

"Well,  sir,  'the  lower?'" 

"The  less  they  try  to  connect  themselves  with 
their  betters  by  talking  about '  we,'  the  better  for 
all  parties."  I  said  this  in  a  scatliing  manner, 
and  feeling  painfully  warm  in  the  forehead. 

"Your're  talking  about  what  you  don't  under- 
stand, sir,"  said  the  exciseman  or  the  tide-wait- 
er, or  whatever  he  was.  We're  all  in  the  same 
boat.  Pray  do  you  never  say  '  we'  when  talking 
of  your  master's  shop?" 

"  Master's  shop,  sir?" 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he,  mocking- 
ly, "aren't  you  a  cashier  in  a  fur-shop?" 

Shop !  Fur-shop !  I  could  have  seen  him — 
seen  him — moth  eaten. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  not,  sir,"  I  burst  out, 
losing  self-control,  "I  am  not  the  man  to  put  tip 
with  the  con — foun — ded  impudence  of  an  ob- 
scure tide-waiter." 

"  Tide-waiter !"  repeated  the  Beast,  starting 
to  his  feet. 

"Tide-waiter,"  I  calmly  reiterated.     . 

At  this,  the  whole  family  of  the  Nuttleburys, 
who  had  hitherto  appeared  to  be  paralysed,  in- 
terposed, one  screeching  out  one  thing,  another 
yelling  another.  But  they  were  all — Mary  and 
all — against  me,  and  affirmed  that  I  had  pur- 
posely picked  a  quarrel  with  their  relation  — 
which,  by-the-by,  I  rather  think  I  had.  The  un- 
pleasantness ended  in  Mr.  Nuttlebury's  request- 
ing me,  in  so  many  words,  to  withdraw. 

"After  what  has  occurred  there  is  nothing 
left  for  me,  but  to  do  so,"  I  remarked,  making 
towards  the  door  with  much  majesty;  "but  if 
Mr.  Huffell  thinks  he  has  heard  the  last  of  this, 
he  is  a  good  deal  mistaken.  As  for  you,  Mary," 
I  continued; — but  before  I  could  complete  my 
sentence  I  exijerienccd  a  sensation  of  an  elderly 


MBS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


41 


hand  in  ray  coat-collar,  and  found  myself  in  tlie 
passage,  with  the  room  door  closed  against  me. 
I  lost  no  time  in  vacating  this  ignominious  posi- 
tion, and  seeking  the  open  air.  Presently  I 
found  myself  at  my  desk  writing  to  Dewsnap. 

Dswsnap  was  then  my  greatest  friend.  He 
was,  like  me,  in  the  fur  business,  and  was  a  fine 
honourable  upright  noble  fellow,  as  bold  as  brass, 
and  always  especially  sensitive  about  the  point 
of  honour.  To  this  friend  I  wrote  a  long  ac- 
count of  all  that  had  happened ;  asking  his  ad- 
vice. I  mentioned  at  the  end  of  my  letter  that 
I  was  only  restrained  by  the  want  of  a  pair  of 
pistols,  from  inviting  this  wretched  being  to  a 
hostile  meeting. 

The  next  day  I  passed  in  retirement,  specu- 
lating much  on  what  Dewsnap's  answer  would 
be.  It  was  a  day  of  heavy  rain,  and  I  had  plen- 
ty of  time  to  mourn  over  my  exclusion  from  the 
cheerful  abode  of  the  Nuttleburys,  and  to  reflect 
how  much  better  off  my  rival  was  (sunning  him- 
self in  my  adored  one's  smiles)  than  I,  a  lonely 
exile,  flattening  my  nose  against  the  wSpdow  of 
a  country  inn,  and  watching  the  drippings  of 
the  roof-drain  as  they  splashed  into  the  fast-fill- 
ing water-butt.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  I  re- 
tired to  rest  early,  and  that  I  was  unable  to 
sleep. 

I  could  sleep  next  morning,  however,  and 
did  so  till  a  late  hour.  I  was  aroused  from  a 
heavy  slumber,  by  a  loud  knocking  at  my  door, 
and  the  sound  of  a  voice  which  I  seemed  to  rec- 
ognize. 

"Here,  Shrubsole !  Hi,  Oliver!  Let  me  in. 
Shrubsole,  what  a  lazy  fellow  you  are!" 

Gracious  Heaven,  was  it  possible  ?  Was  it  the 
voice  of  Dewsijap?  I  rose,  unlocked  the  door, 
and  jumped  into  bed  again. 

Yes,  it  was  my  friend.  He  entered  erect,  vig- 
orous, energetic  as  usual,  deposited  a  small  car- 
pet-bag near  the  door,  and,  retaining  a  curious- 
looking  oblong  mahogany  box  under  his  arm, 
advanced  to  greet  me. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  do  lying  in  bed  at 
this  time  of  the  day  ?''  said  Dewsnap,  grasping 
my  hand. 

"I  couldn't  sleep  till  morning  came,"  I  an- 
swered, passing  my  hand  athwart  my  brow.  ' '  But 
how  did  you  get  away?" 

"Oh,  I've  got  a  few  days'  holiday,  and  am 
come  down  to  answer  your  letter  in  person. 
AVell  ?     How's  this  affair  going  on  ?" 

"  Do  not  ask  me,"  I  groaned.  "  It  has  made 
me  wretched.  I  know  no  more.  You  don't 
know  how  fond  I  was  of  that  girl." 

"  W611,  and  you  shall  have  her  yet.  I'm  go- 
ing to  settle  it  all  for  you,"  said  Dewsnap,  con- 
fidently. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?"  I  asked,  with 
some  hesitation. 

"Do?  Why,  there's  only  one  thing  to  do?" 
He  rattled  the  queer-looking  mahogany  box  as 
though  it  contained  metallic  pills. 

"What  have  you  got  in  that  box?"  I  asked. 

"There's  a  pair  of  pistols  in  this  box,"  said 
Dewsnap,  proudly,  "with  either  one  of  which 
it  would  almost  be  a  pleasure  lb  find  yourself 
winged." 

"Sir?"  I  observed,  sitting  up  in  bed  with 
marked  displeasure. 

"You  mentioned  your  difficulty  about  weap- 
ons, so  I  borrowed  them  of  a  friend  of  mine — 


a  gunmaker  —  and  brought  them  down  with 
me." 

"Hang  him!"  I  thought,  "how  very  prompt 
he  has  been  about  it.  Amazingly  prompt,  to 
be  sure. — You  think,  then,"  I  added,  aloud, 
"that  there's  no — no  other  way  out  of  the  difli- 
culty?" 

"Apology,"  said  Dewsnap,  who  had  now 
opened  the  box,  and  was  clicking  away  with  the 
lock  of  one  of  the  weapons,  with  the  muzzle  di- 
rected towards  my  head — "ample  apology  on 
the  part  of  the  other  side — is  the  only  alterna- 
tive.   Written  apology,  in  fact." 

"Ah,"  I  replied,  "I  don't  think  the  other  side 
will  agree  to  that." 

"Then,"  said  my  friend,  extending  his  pistol, 
and  aiming  at  a  portrait  of  the  Marquis  of  Gran- 
by  hanging  over  the  fireplace:  "then  we  must 
put  a  bullet  into  the  exciseman." 

(And  suppose  the  exciseman  puts  a  bullet 
into  me,  I  thought  to  myself.  So  erratic  is 
thought !) 

"Where  docs  the  exciseman  live  ?"  inquired 
my  friend,  putting  on  his  hat.  "There  is  not 
a  moment  to  be  lost  in  these  cases." 

"  Wait  till  I'm  dressed,"  I  remonstrated,  "and 
I'll  show  you.     Or  you  can  go  after  breakfast." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  The  people  down  stairs  will 
tell  me  where  to  find  him.  Nuttleburys,  I  think 
you  said?  I'll  be  there  and  back  by  the  time 
you're  ready  for  breakfast." 

He  was  out  of  the  room  almost  before  he  had 
done  speaking,  and  I  was  left  to  make  my  toilet 
and  improve  my  appetite  for  breakfast  with  the 
reflection  that  the  number  of  such  meals  in  storq 
for  me  was,  perhaps,  more  limited  than  I  could 
have  wished.  Perhaps  I  a  little  regretted  having 
j)ut  the  afiiiir  into  the  hands  of  my  energetic 
friend.  So  erratic  (I  may  again  remark)  is  hu- 
man thought  I 

I  waited  some  time  for  my  friend,  but  was 
obliged  at  last  to  begin  breakfast  without  him. 
As  the  meal  was  approaching  its  termination,  I 
saw  him  pass  the  window  of  the  little  parlour  in 
which  I  took  my  meals,  and  immediately  after- 
wards he  entered  the  room. 

"  Wen,"  he  said,  sitting  down  at  the  table  and 
commencing  a  vigorous  attack  on  the  eatables, 
"it  is  as  I  expected.  We  are  driven  to  extrem- 
ities." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  mean,"  remarked  Dewsnap,  chipping  away 
at  his  egg,  "that  the  other  side  declines  to 
apologise,  and  that  consequently  the  other  side 
must  be  bowled  down ; — shot." 

"Oh  dear  me,"  I  said — relenting.  Major,  re- 
lenting— "I  shouldn't  like  to  do  that." 

"You  wouldn't  like  to  do  that?  May  I  ask, 
Mr.  Shrubsole,  what  you  mean  by  that  remark?" 

"I  mean  that,. that — is  there  no  other  way 
out  of  it?" 

"Now  look  here,  Shrubsole,"  said  my  com- 
panion, with  a  severe  air,  and  suspending  for  a 
moment  his  attack  on  the  breakfast ;  "  you  have 
put  this  affair  in  my  hands,  and  you  must  allow 
me  to  carry  it  through,  according  to  the  laws 
of  honour.  It  is  extremely  painful  to  me  to  be 
engaged  in  such  an  affair"  (I  couldn't  help 
thinking  that  he  .seemed  rather  to  enjoy  it), 
"but,  being  engaged  in  it,  I  shall  go  through 
with  it  to  tlie  end.  Come!  We'll  get  these 
I  things  cleared  away,  and  then  you  shall  sit  down 


43 


^mS.  LIKEIPER-S  LODGINGS. 


and  write  a  formal  challenge,  which  I  will  un- 
dertake to  deliver  in  the  proper  quarter.'' 

Dewsnap  was  too  much  for  me.  He  seemed 
to  have  all  the  ri};ht  phrases  at  his  tongue's  end ; 
he  was  so  tremendously  well-informed  as  to  what 
was  the  right  thing  to  do,  and  the  right  thing 
to  say  when  conducting  an  aftair  of  this  kind, 
that  i  could  not  help  asking  him  whether  he 
had  ever  been  engaged  in  one  before  ? 

"No,"  he  said,  "uo:  but  I  believe  I  have  a 
sort  of  aptitude  for  the  kind  of  thing.  Indeed, 
I  have  always  felt  that  I  should  be  in  my  element 
in  arranging  the  details  of  an  aflFair  of  honour." 

' '  How  you  would  enjoy  being  a  principal  in- 
stead of  a  second  I"  I  said — rather  maliciously; 
for  Dewsnap's  alacrity  aggravated  me. 

"No,  not  a  bit,  my  dear  fellow.  I  take  such 
an  interest  in  this  affair  that  I  identify  myself 
with  you  entirely,  and  quite  feel  as  if  I  was  a 
principal." 

(Then  yon  feel  a  very  curious  sensation  about 
the  pit  of  the  stomach,  my  boy,  I  thought  to  my- 
self. I  did  not  however  give  the  thought  ex- 
pression. I  merely  mention  it  as  an  instance  of 
the  erratic  nature  of  thought.) 

"By-the-by,"  remarked  Dewsnap,  as  he  pock- 
eted  my  challenge  and  prepared  to  depart,  "  I 
forgot  to  mention  that  one  or  two  fellows  of  our 
acquaintance  are  coming  down." 

"One  or  two  fellows?"  I  repeated,  in  a  high- 
ly displeased,  nay,  crushing  tone. 

"Yes,  Crijjps  is  coming,  and  Fowler,  and  per- 
haps Kershaw,  if  he  can  get  away.  We  were 
talking  your  affair  over,  the  evening  before  I 
left,  and  they  were  all  so  much  interested  in  it 
— for  I  predicted  from  the  first  that  there  must 
be  a  meeting — that  they're  all  coining  down  to 
see  you  through  it." 

How  I  cursed  my  own  folly  in  having  entrust- 
ed the  keeping  of  my  honour  to  this  dreadfully 
zealous  friend  of  mine !  I  thought,  as  he  march- 
ed off  erect  and  fussy  with  that  wretched  chal- 
lenge in  his  pocket,  that  there  was  something 
positively  bloodthirsty  about  the  man.  And 
then  those  other  fellows  coming  down  for  the 
express  purpose  of  seeing  somebody  shot !  For 
that  teas  their  purpose,  I  felt.  I  fully  believed 
that,  if  by  any  fortunate  chance  there  should  be 
no  blood  shed,  those  so-called  friends  of  mine 
would  go  away  disgusted. 

The  train  of  reflection  into  which  I  had  fallen 
was  interrupted  at  this  juncture,  by  the  appear- 
ance outside  the  window,  of  three  human  fig- 
ures. These  turned  out,  on  inspection,  to  be 
no  other  than  the  individuals  whose  taste  for 
excitement  I  had  been  condemning  so  strongly 
in  my  own  mind.  There  they  were,  Messrs. 
Cripps,  Fowler,  and  Kerehaw,  grinning  and  ges- 
ticulating at  me  through  the  window,  like  vul- 
gar unfeeling  idiots  as  they  were.  And  one  of 
them  (I  think  it  was  Cripps)  had  the  brutality 
to  put  himself  into  the  attitude  supposed  to  lie 
the  correct  one  for  a  duellist,  with  his  left  hand 
behind  his  back,  and  his  right  raised  as  if  to  dis- 
charge an  imaginary  pistol. 

They  were  in  the  room  with  me  directly,  large, 
noisy,  and  vulgar,  laughing  and  guffawing — 
making  comments  on  my  appearance,  asking  me 
if  I  had  made  my  will,  what  I  had  left  to  each 
of  them,  and  otherwise  conducting  themselves 
in  a  manner  calculated  to  turn  one's  milk  of 
human  kindness  to  bitterest  gall.     How  they 


enjoyed  it !  "When  they  learned  that  Dewsnap 
was  actually  at  that  time  away  on  a  war  mission, 
and  that  he  might  return  at  any  moment  with 
the  fatal  answer — I  say  when  they  heard  that, 
they  positively  gloated  over  me.  They  sat  down 
and  stared  at  me,  and  every  now  and  then  one 
of  them  would  say,  with  a  low,  chuckling  gig- 
gle, ' '  I  say,  old  fellow !  How  do  feel  about  it 
now?"  It  was  a  hideous  relief  to  me  when 
Dewsnap  returned  with  the  baleful  news  that 
the  challenge  was  accepted,  and  that  the  meet- 
ing was  appointed  for  the  next  morning  at  eight 
o'clock. 

Those  ruffians  enjoyed  themselves  that  after- 
noon to  the  utmost.  They  had  such  a  ])leasure 
in  store  for  next  day,  that  it  gave  an  added  zest 
to  everything  they  did.  It  sharpened  their  ap- 
petites, it  stimulated  their  thirst,  it  imparted  to 
the  skittles  with  which  they  amused  themselves 
during  the  afternoon,  an  additional  charm.  The 
evening  was  devoted  to  conviviality.  Dewsnap, 
after  spending  some  time  in  oiling  the  triggers 
of  the  pistols,  remarked  that  now  they  were  in 
such  prime  condition,  that  they  would  "snap  a 
fellow's  head  off,  almost  without  his  knowing 
it."  This  inhuman  remark  was  made  at  the 
moment  when  we  were  separating  for  the  night. 

I  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  dark  hours  in 
writing  letters  of  farewell  to  my  relations  and  in 
composing  a  stinger  for  Miss  Mary  Nuttlebury, 
which  I  trusted  would  embitter  the  whole  of  her 
future  life.  Then  I  threw  myself  on  my  bed — 
which  was  not  wholly  devoid  of  knoljs — and 
found  for  a  few  hours  the  oblivion  I  desired. 

We  were  first  on  the  ground.  Indeed,  it  was 
necessary  that  we  should  be,  as  those  three  fero- 
cious Anabaptists,  Cripps,  Fowler,  and  Kershaw, 
had  to  be  stowed  away  in  places  of  concealment 
whence  they  could  see  without  being  seen ;  but 
even  when  this  stowage  had  been  accomplished 
and  the  fatal  hour  liad  arrived,  we  were  still 
kept  waiting  so  long  that  a  faint  hope — misgiv- 
ing, I  meant  to  say — began  to  dawn  in  my  heart 
that  my  adversary  had  been  seized  with  a  sud- 
den panic,  and  had  fled  at  fi\&  last  moment,  leav- 
ing me  master  of  the  situation,  with  a  bloodless 
victory. 

The  sound  of  voices,  and  of  laughter — laughter 
— reached  me  while  I  was  musing  on  the  pros- 
pect of  an  honourable  escape  from  my  perilous 
position.  lu  another  moment  my  antagonist, 
still  talking  and  laughing  with  some  one  who 
closely  followed  him,  jumped  over  a  stile  at  the 
side  of  the  field  in  which  we  awaited  him. 
Grinning  in  the  most  impudent  manner,  my  an- 
tagonist inquired  of  his  second,  who  was  the  vil- 
lag3  apothecary's  assistant,  whether  he  was  a 
good  hand  at  patching  up  bullet  wounds  ? 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  an  incident  oc- 
curred which  caused  a  small  delay  in  our  pro- 
ceedings. One  of  the  Anabaptists — Cripps — 
had,  with  a  view  to  concealment,  and  also  per- 
Tiaps  with  a  view  to  keeping  out  of  harm's  way, 
perched  himself  in  a  tree  which  commanded  a 
good  view  of  the  field  of  action ;  but  not  having 
used  sufficient  caution  in  the  choice  of  his  posi- 
tion, he  had  trusted  his  weight  to  a  bough  which 
proved  unequal  to  the  task  of  sustaining  it.  Con- 
sequently it  happened  that  just  as  the  seconds 
were  beginning  their  preliminary  arrangements, 
and  during  an  awful  pause,  the  unlucky  Cripps 
came  plunging  and  crashing  to  the  ground,  where 


MRS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


4t 


he  remained  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  in  a 
state  of  undignified  ruin  and  prostration. 

After  this  there  was  a  prodigious  row  and  confu- 
sion. My  opponent  having  thus  discovered  that 
there  was  one  person  observing  our  proceedings 
from  a  place  of  concealment,  concluded  natu- 
rally enough  that  there  might  be  others.  Ac- 
cordingly a  search  was  promptly  instituted,  which 
ended  in  the  unearthing  of  my  two  other  friends, 
who  were  obliged  to  emerge  from  their  hiding- 
places  in  a  very  humiliated  and  crestfallen  con- 
dition. My  adversary  would  not  hear  of  fight- 
ing ji  duel  in  the  presence  of  so  large  an  audi- 
ence, and  so  it  ended  in  the  three  brutal  Ana- 
baptists being — very  much  to  my  satisfaction — 
expelled  from  the  field.  The  appearance  they 
presented  as  they  retired  along  the  pathway  in 
Indian  file,  was  the  most  abject  thing  I  have 
ever  beheld. 

This  little  business  disposed  of,  there  remained 
the  great  affair  of  the  day  to  settle,  and  it  took 
a  great  deal  of  settlement.  There  were  diver- 
sities of  opinions  about  every  detail  connected 
with  the  murderous  operations.  There  were  dis- 
putes about  the  number  of  paces  which  should 
separate  the  combatants,  about  the  length  of 
those  paces,  about  the  proper  method  of  loading 
pistols,  about  the  best  way  of  gidng  the  signal 
to  fire — about  every  thing.  But  what  disgusted 
me  most,  was  the  levity  displayed  by  my  oppo- 
nent, who  seemed  to  think  the  whole  thing  a 
capital  joke,  sneering  and  sniggering  at  every 
thing  that  was  done  or  said.  Does  the  man  bear 
a  charmed  life,  I  asked  myself,  that  he  behaves  with 
such  sickening  flippancy  when  about  to  risk  it  ? 

At  last  all  these  endless  preliminaries  were 
settled,  and  Mr.  Huffell  and  I  remained  staring 
defiance  at  each  other  with  a  distance  of  only 
twelve  paces  between  us.  The  beast  was  grin- 
ning even  now,  and  when  he  was  asked  for  the 
last  time  whether  he  was  prepared  to  make  an 
apology,  he  absolutely  laughed. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  one  of  the  seconds, 
HuffdU's  as  it  happened,  should  count  one,  two, 
three,  and  that  at  the  word  "three"  we  should 
both  fire  (if  we  could)  at  the  same  moment. 
My  heart  felt  so  tight  at  about  this  period,  that 
I  fancied  it  must  have  contracted  to  half  its  usual 
size,  and  I  had  a  sensation  of  being  light  on  my 
legs,  and  inordinately  tall,  such  as  one  has  after 
having  had  a  fever. 

"One!"  said  the  apothecary,  and  the  mono- 
svllable  was  followed  by  quite  a  long  pause. 
'  "Two!" 

"  Stop !"  cried  a  voice,  which  I  recognized  as 
the  voice  of  my  adversary,  "I  have  something 
to  say." 

I  whisked  myself  round  in  a  moment,  and  saw 
that  Mr.  Huffell  had  thrown  his  weapon  down 
on  the  ground,  and  had  left  the  position  which 
had  been  assigned  to  him. 

"What  have  you  to  say,  sir?"  asked  the  in- 
exorable Dewsnap,  in  a  severe  tone  ;  "  whatever 
it  is,  you  have  chosen  a  most  extraordinary  mo- 
ment to  say  it  in." 

"  I  have  changed  my  mind,"  said  Mr.  Huffell, 
in  a  lachrymose  tone;  "I  think  that  duelUng  is 
sinful,  and  I  consent  to  apologise." 

Astounded  as  I  was  at  this  announcement,  I 
had  yet  leisure  to  observe  that  the  apothecary 
did  not  look  in  the  least  surprised  at  what  had 
happened. 


"You  consent  to  apologise  ?"  nsked  Dewsnap, 
"  to  resign  all  claim  to  the  lady,  to  express  your 
deep  contrition  for  the  insolent  expressions  you 
have  made  use  of  towards  my  friend  ?" 

"I  consent,"  was  the  reply. 

"  We  must  have  it  all  down  in  writing,  mind !" 
stipulated  my  uncompromising  friend. 

"  You  shall  have  it  all  down  in  writing,"  said 
the  contrite  one. 

"Well,  this  is  a  most  extraordinary  and  un- 
satisfactory sort  of  thing,"  said  Dewsnap,  turn- 
ing to  me.     "What  are  we  to  do?" 

"It  is  unsatisfactory,  but  I  suppose  we  must 
accept  his  apology,"  I  answered,  in  a  leisurely 
and  nonchalant  manner.  My  heart  expanded 
at  about  this  period. 

"Has  anybody  got  wrhing  materials  about 
him  by  chance?"  asked  my  second,  in  a  not  very 
conciliatory  tone. 

Yes,  the  apothecary  had,  and  he  whipped  them 
out  in  a  moment — a  note-book  of  unusual  size, 
and  an  indelible  ink-pencil. 

An  apology  of  the  most  humble  and  abject 
kind  was  now  dictated  by  my  friend  Dewsnap, 
and  written  down  by  the  crushed  and  conquered 
Huffell.  When  he  had  aflSxed  his  signature  to 
the  document,  it  exactly  filled  one  leaf  of  the 
apothecary's  memorandum-book.  The  leaf  was 
torn  out  and  handed  to  my  representative.  At 
that  moment  the  sound  of  the  village-clock  strik- 
ing nine  reached  us  from  the  distant  church. 

Jlr.  Huffell  started  as  if  the  day  were  more 
advanced  than  he  anticipated. 

"  I  believe  that  the  document  is  regular?"  he 
asked.  "If  so,  there  is  nothing  to  detain  us  in 
a  spot  henceforth  replete  with  painful  associa- 
tions.    Gentlemen  both,  good  morning." 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  said  Dewsnap,  sharp- 
ly ;  "and allow  me  to  add,  that  you  have  reason 
to  consider  yourself  an  uncommonly  lucky  young 
man." 

"I  do  so  consider  myself,  I  assure  you,"  re- 
torted the  servile  wretch. 

With  that,  he  took  his  leave  and  disappeared 
over  the  stile,  closely  followed  by  his  companion. 
Again  I  thought  I  heard  this  precious  pair  ex- 
plode into  fits  of  laughter  as  soon  as  they  were 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge. 

Dewsnap  looked  at  me,  and  I  looked  at  Dew- 
snap, but  we  could  make  nothing  of  it.  It  was 
the  most  inexplicable  thing  that  the  man  should 
have  gone  so  far,  should  have  had  his  finger  on 
the  trigger  of  his  pistol,  should  have  waited  till 
the  very  signal  to  fire  was  on  the  lij>s  of  his  sec- 
ond, and  should  then  have  broken  down  in  that 
lamentable  manner.  It  really  was,  as  my  friend 
and  I  agreed,  the  most  disgraceful  piece  of  cow- 
ardice of  which  we  had  ever  had  experience. 
Another  point  on  wiiich  we  were  agreed,  was, 
that  our  side  had  come  out  of  this  affair  with 
an  amount  of  honour  and  plor}',  such  as  is  rare- 
ly achieved  by  the  sons  of  men  in  this  practical 
and  un-romantic  age. 

And  now  behold  the  victor  and  his  friends, 
asseirbled  round  the  small  dining-table  at  the 
George  and  Dragon,  and  celebrating  their  tri- 
nm])h  by  a  breakfast !  in  preparing  which  all  the 
resources  of  the  establishment  were  brought  into 
play. 

It  was  a  solemn  occasion.  The  moment,  I 
acknowledge,  was  to  me  a  glorious  one.  My 
friends,  naturally  proud  of  their  associate,  and 


u 


JIBS.  LIRRIPER'S  LODGINGS. 


anxious  to  commemorate  in  some  fitting  manner 
the  event  of  tlie  morning,  luul  invited  me  to  this 
meal  to  be  provided  at  their  own  expense.  These 
dear  fellows  were  no  longer  my  guests.  I  was 
theirs.  Dewsnap  was  in  the  chair — it  was  of  the 
Windsor  pattern — I  was  placed  on  his  right : 
while  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  which  was 
not  very  far  off,  another  Windsor  chair  sup- 
ported the  person  of  Mr.  Cripis,  the  vice.  The 
viands  set  before  us  were  of  the  most  recherche 
description,  and  when  these  had  been  done  full 
justice  to,  and  the  chair  had  called  for  a  bottle 
of  champagne,  onr  hilarity  began  almost  to 
verge  on  the  boisterous.  My  own  mirth,  in- 
deed, was  chastened  by  one  pen'ading  thought, 
of  which  I  never  for  a  moment  lost  sight.  Had 
I  not  a  secret  joy  which  champagne  could  neither 
increase  nor  diminish  ?  Had  not  my  rival  form- 
ally abdicated,  and  was  I  not  that  very  day  to 
appear  in  the  presence  of  Mary  Nuttlebury  as 
one  who  had  risked  his  life  for  her  sake  ?  Yes. 
I  waited  impatiently  for  the  hour  when  these 
good  fellows  should  take  their  departure,  de- 
termining that,  the  moment  they  were  gone,  I 
would  take  possession  of  the  field  ingloriously 
vacated  by  my  rival,  and  would  enjoy  the  fruits 
of  my  victory.  I  was  aroused  from  these  reflec- 
tions by  the  voice  of  my  friend  Dewsnap.  It 
was,  however,  no  longer  the  familiar  acquaint- 
ance who  spoke,  but  the  official  chairman. 

ilr.  Dewsnap  began  by  remarking  that  we 
were  met  together  on  an  occasion  and  under 
circumstances,  of  a  very  pecilliar — he  might  al- 
most say  of  an  anomalous — nature.  To  begin 
with,  here  was  a  social  meeting — nay,  a  conviv- 
ial meeting,  taking  place  at  ten  o'clock  in  the 
forenoon.  That  was  the  first  anomaly.  And 
for  what  was  that  meeting  convened?  To  com- 
memorate an  act  belonging  to  a  class  of  achieve- 
ments usually  associated  with  a  bygone  age, 
rather  than  with  that  in  which  an  inexorable 
Destiny  had  cast  the  lots  of  the  present  genera- 
tion. Here  was  the  second  anomaly.  Yes,  these 
were  anomalies,  but  anomalies  of  what  a  delight- 
ful kind  !  Would  there  were  more  such  !  It 
was — Mr.  Dewsnap  went  on  to  say — the  fashion 
of  the  day  to  decry  the  practice  of  duelling,  but 
•  he,  for  his  part,  had  always  felt  that  circum- 
stances might  occur  in  the  coui-se  of  any  man's 
career  which  would  render  an  appeal  to  arms 
desirable — nay,  to  one  who  was  sensitive  on  the 
point  of  honour,  inevitable — and  he  therefore 
thought  it  highly  important  that  the  practice  of 
duelling  should  not  wholly  fall  into  desuetude, 
but  should  be  occasionally  revived,  as  it  had 
been  on — on — in  short,  the  present  occasion. 

At  this  moment,  curiously  enough,  a  faint 
cheer  was  heard  in  the  distance.  It  came,  doubt- 
less, from  the  throats  of  some  of  the  village-boys, 
and  presently  subsided.  It  was  enough,  how- 
ever, to  deprive  our  worthy  chair  of  the  thread 
of  his  eloquence,  so  that  he  was  compelled  to 
start  again  on  a  new  tack. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Dewsnap,  "I  must 
throw  myself  on  your  indulgence  if  my  words 
fail  to  flow  as  freely  as  I  could  wish.  I  am,  to 
begin  with,  gentlemen,  powerfully  moved,  and 
that  alone  is  enough  to  deprive  mc  of  any  small 
amount  of  eloquence  of  which  I  may  at  other 
times  be  possessed.  Likewise,  I  must  frankly 
own  that  I  am  unaccustomed  to  public  speak- 
ing at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  that  the 


day-light  puts  me  out.  And  yet,"  continued  the 
cliair,  "I  do  not  know  why  this  should  be  so. 
Do  not  wedding-breakfasts  take  place  by  day- 
light ?  And  are  not  speeches  made  on  those  oc- 
casions? And,  after  all,  why  should  we  not  look 
upon  this  very  meal  as,  to  a  certain  extent,  a 
wedding-breakfast?  Yon  seem  surprised,  gen- 
tlemen, at  this  inquirj',  but  I  will  ask  you  wheth- 
er the  event  we  are  met  together  to  celebrate — 
the  event  of  this  morning — has  not  been  the  first 
act  of  a  drama  which  we  all  hope  will  terminate 
in  a  wedding — the  wedding  of  our  noble  and 
courageous  friend  ?" 

It  was  a  curious  thing  that,  just  when  our 
chairman  had  got  as  far  as  this  in  his  speech, 
the  cheering  we  had  heard  before  was  repeated ; 
though  now  much  more  londly.  It  was  also  a 
curious  thing  that  the  bells  of  the  village  church, 
which  was  not  very  far  off,  began  to  ring  a  merry 
peal.  There  might  not  be  much  to  concern  us, 
in  this,  but  still  it  was  curious.  The  attention 
of  Mr.  Dewsnap's  audience  began  to  wander, 
and  their  glances  were,  from  time  to  time,  di- 
rected towards  the  window.  Mr.  Dewsnap's 
own  attention  began  also  to  wander,  and  the 
thread  of  his  discourse  seemed  once  more  to  elude 
his  grasp; 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  began  again,  resolved,  like 
a  true  orator  as  he  was,  to  avail  himself  of  acci- 
dent, "I  was  remarking  that  this  festive  meal 
was,  in  some  sort  and  by  a  figure  of  speech,  a 
kind  of  wedding-breakfast,  and  while  the  words 
were  yet  upon  my  lips,  behold  the  bells  of  the 
village  church  break  out  into  a  joyous  peal! 
Gentlemen,  there  is  something  almost  supernat- 
ural about  this.  It  is  a  happy  augury,  and  as 
such  I  accept  it." 

The  bells  were  becoming  quite  frantic  now, 
and  the  cheering  was  louder. 

"And  as  suchi  accept  it !"  repcatcdMr.  Dews- 
nap. "  Gentlemen,  I  should  not  be  surprised  if 
this  were  an  ovation  oft'ered  to  our  ncble  and 
courageous  friend.  The  villagers  have  heard  of 
his  noble  and  cou'  agcous  conduct,  and  arc  ap- 
proaching the  inn  to  offer  their  humble  congrat- 
ulations." 

It  was  quite  certain  that  the  villagers  were 
approaching  the  inn,  for  the  sound  of  their 
voices  became  every  moment  louder  and  louder. 
We  all  began  to  be  restless  under  our  chairman's 
eloquence,  and  when  at  length  the  sound  of 
wheels  rapidly  approaching  was  added  to  the 
cheering  and  the  bell-ringing,  I  could  bear  it  no 
longer,  and  rushed  hastily  to  the  window,  fol- 
lowed by  everybody  else  in  the  room,  the  chair 
himself  included. 

A  carriage  and  pair  drove  swiftly  past  the 
window.  Major,  I  sicken  while  I  speak.  There 
was  a  postilion  on  the  near  horse,  and  on  that 
postilion's  jacket  was  a — Oho  I — Excuse  me,  I 
beg  —  a  wedding-favour.  It  was  an  open  car- 
riage, and  in  it  were  seated  two  jiersons ;  one, 
was  the  gentleman,  who  had  made  me  that  hum- 
ble apology  not  much  more  tlian  an  hour  ago ; 
the  other,  was  Mary  Nuttlebury,  now,  if  I  were  to 
believe  the  evidence  of  my  senses,  Marj-  Iluffell. 
They  both  laughed  when  they  saw  me  at  the 
window,  and  kissed  their  hands  to  me  as  they 
whirled  away. 

I  became  as  one  frantic.  I  pushed  my  friends, 
who  in  vain  sought  to  restrain  mo,  on  one  side. 
I  rushed  out  into  the  village  street.     I  yelled 


MRS.  LIRRt 

after  the  carriaf^e.   I  gesticulated  at  the  carria 
I  ran  after  tlie  carriage.     But  to  what  purpos 
It  was  over.     The  tiling  was  done.     I  had  to 
return  to  the  inn,  the  laughing-stock  of  the  rude 
and  ignorant  populace. 

I  know  no  more.  I  don't  know  what  became 
of  me,  how  my  bill  at  the  inn  was  defrayed,  how 
I  got  away.  I  only  know  that  I  am  finally, 
hopelessly,  and  irretrievably  under  a  cloud; 
that  all  my  old  companions,  and  my  old  habits 
have  become  odious  to  me ;  and  that  even  the 
very  lodgings  in  which  I  formerly  resided  were 
so  unbearable,  owing  to  the  furniture  being  im- 
pregnated with  painful  associations,  that  I  was 
obliged  to  remove  and  take  up  my  quarters  else- 
where. This,  sir,  is  how  I  came  to  occupy  these 
rooms,  and  I  may  here  mention — if  indeed  the 
testimonial  of  a  blighted  wretch  is  of  any  value 
— that  1  have  no  cause  to  regret  my  change  of 
abode,  and  that  I  regard  Mrs.  Lirriper  as  a 
most  unexceptionable  pereon,  laboring  indeed, 
as  far  as  I  can  see,  under  only  one  defect. 
She  is  A  WOMAN. 


VII. 

HOW  THE   PARLOURS   ADDED  A  FEW  WORDS. 

I  HAVE  the  honour  of  presenting  myself  by 
the  name  of  Jackman.  I  esteem  it  a  proud 
privilege  to  go  down  to  posterity  through  the 
instrumentality  of  the  most  remarkable  boy  that 
ever  lived  —  by  the  name  of  Jemjiy  Jackman 
Lirriper — and  of  ray  most  woi'thy  and  most 
highly  respected  friend,  Mrs.  Emma  Lirriper,  of 
Eighty-one,  Norfolk-street,  Strand,  in  the  Coun- 
ty of  Middlesex,  in  the  United  Kingdom  of  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland. 

It  is  not  for  me  to  express  the  rapture  with 
which  we  received  that  dear  and  eminently 
remarkable  boy,  on  the  occurrence  of  his  first 
Christmas  holidays.  Suffice  it  to  observe  that 
when  he  came  flying  into  the  house  with  two 
splendid  prizes  (Arithmetic,  and  Exemplary 
Conduct),  Mrs.  Lirriper  and  myself  embraced 
with  emotion,  and  instantly  took  him  to  the 
Play,  where  we  were  all  three  admirably  enter- 
tained. 

Nor,  is  it  to  render  homage  to  the  virtues  of 
the  best  of  her  good  and  honoured  sex — whom, 
in  deference  to  her  unassuming  worth,  I  will 
only  here  designate  by  the  Initials  E.  L. — that 
I  add  this  record  to  the  bundle  of  papers  with 
which  our,  in  a  most  distinguished  degree,  re- 
markable boy  has  expressed  himself  delighted, 
before  re-consigning  the  same  to  the  left-hand 
glass  closet  of  Mrs.  Lirriper's  little  bookcase. 

Neither,  is  it  to  obtrude  the  name  of  the  old 
originalsuperannuated  obscure  Jemmy  Jackman, 
once  (to  his  degradation)  of  Wozenham's,  long 
(to  his  elevation)  of  Lin-iper's.  If  I  could  be 
consciously  guilty  of  that  ]jiece  of  bad  taste,  it 
would  indeed  be  a  work  of  supererogation,  now 
that  the  name  is  borne  by  Jesuit  Jacioian  Lir- 
riper. 

No.  I  take  up  my  humble  pen  to  register  a 
little  record  of  our  strikingly  remarkable  boy, 
which  my  poor  capacity  regards  as  presenting  a 
pleasant  little  picture  of  the  dear  boy's  mind. 
The  picture  may  be  interesting  to  himself  when 
he  is  a  man. 


45 


A     000  659'895 7         3  to! 

gether.  Jemmy  was  never  silent  lor  five  min- 
utes, except  in  church-time,  lie  talked  as  wo 
sat  by  the  fire,  he  talked  when  we  were  out 
walking,  he  talked  as  we  sat  by  the  fire  again, 
he  talked  incessantly  at  dinner,  though  he  made 
a  dinner  almost  as  remarkable  as  himself.  It 
was  the  spring  of  happiness  in  his  fresh  young 
heart  flowing  and  flowing,  and  it  fertilised  (if  I 
may  be  allowed  so  bold  a  figure)  my  much-es- 
teemed friend,  and  J —  J —  the  present  writer. 

There  were  only  we  three.  We  dined  in  my 
esteemed  friend's  little  room,  and  our  entertain- 
ment was  perfect.  But  everything  in  the  es- 
tablishment is,  in  neatness,  order,  and  comfort, 
always  perfect.  After  dinner,  our  boy  slipt  away 
to  his  old  stool  at  my  esteemed  friend's  knee, 
and  there,  with  his  hot  chesnuts  and  his  glass 
of  brown  sherry  (really,  a  most  excellent  wine!) 
on  a  chair  for  a  table,  his  face  outshone  the  ap- 
ples in  the  dish. 

We  talked  of  these  jottings  of  mine,  which 
Jemmy  had  read  through  and  through  by  that 
time ;  and  so  it  came  about  that  my  esteemed 
friend  remarked,  as  she  sat  smoothing  Jemmy's 
curls : 

"  And  as  yon  belong  to  the  house  too  Jem- 
my,— and  so  much  more  than  the  Lodgers,  hav- 
ing been  bom  in  it — why,  your  story  ougjit  to 
be  added  to  the  rest,  I  think,  one  of  these  days." 

Jemmy's  eyes  sparkled  at  this,  and  he  said, 
"So /think,' Gran." 

Then,  he  sat  looking  at  the  fire,  and  then  he 
began  to  laugh,  in  a  sort  of  confidence  with  the 
fire,  and  then  he  said,  folding  his  arms  across 
my  esteemed  friend's  lap  and  raising  his  bright 
face  to  hers : 

•'Would  you  like  to  hear  a  boy's  story.  Gran?" 

"  Of  all  things,"  replied  my  esteemed  friend. 

"Would  you,  godfather?" 

"  Of  all  things,"  I  too  replied. 

"  Well  then,"  said  Jemmy,  "  I'll  tell  yon  one." 

Here,  our  indisputably  remarkable  boy  gave 
himself  a  hug,  and  laughed  again,  musically,  at 
the  idea  of  his  coming  out  in  that  new  line. 
Then,  he  once  more  took  the  fire  into  the  same 
sort  of  confidence  as  before,  and  began : 

"Once  upon  a  time.  When  pigs  drank  wine. 
And  monkeys  chewed  tobaccer,  'Twas  neither 
in  your  time  nor  mine.  But  that's  no  mack- 
er " 

"  Bless  the  child !"  cried  my  esteemed  friend, 
"what's  amiss  with  his  brain !" 

"It's  poetry.  Gran,"  returned  Jemmy,  shout- 
ing with  laughter.  "  We  always  begin  stories 
that  way,  at  school." 

"  Gave  me  quite  a  turn,  Major,"  said  my  es- 
teemed friend,  fanning  herself  with  a  plate. 
"  Tliought  he  was  light-headed  !" 

"  In  those  remarkable  times.  Gran  and  God- 
fiither,  there  was  once  a  boy; — not  me,  you 
know." 

"No,  no,"  says  my  respected  friend,  "not 
yon.     Not  him.  Major,  yon  understaVid  ?" 

"No,  no,"  says  I. 

"And  he  went  to  school  in  Rutlandshire " 

"Why  not  Lincolnshire?"  says  my  respected 
friend. 

"Why  not,  you  dear  old  Gran?  Because  / 
go  to  school  in  Lincolnshire,  don't  I  ?" 

"  Ah !  to  be  sure  I"  says  my  respected  friend. 


46 


MES.  LIRRirER'S  LODGEN'GS. 


"And  it's  not  Jemmj,  you  understand,  Ma- 

",No,  no,    says  I. 

"  Well !"  our  boy  proceeded,  hugging  himself 
comfortably,  and  laughing  merrily  (again  in  con- 
fidence with  the  fire),  before  he  again  looked  up 
in  Mrs.  Lirriper's  face,  "and  so  he  was  tremen- 
dously in  love  with  his  schoolmaster's  daughter, 
and  she  was  the  most  beautiful  creature  that 
ever  was  seen,  and  she  had  brown  eyes,  and  she 
had  brown  hair  all  curling  beautifully,  and  she 
had  a  delicious  voice,  and  she  was  delicious  al- 
together, and  her  name  was  Seraphiua." 

"What's  the  name  of  your  schoolmaster's 
daughter.  Jemmy  ?"  asks  my  respected  friend. 

"Polly!"  replied  Jemmy,  pointing  his  fore- 
finger at  her.  "There  now!  Caught  you! 
Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

When  he  and  my  respected  friend  had  had  a 
laugh  and  a  hug  together,  our  admittedly  re- 
markable boy  resumed  with  a  great  relish : 

"Well!  And  so  he  loved  her.  And  so  he 
thought  about  her,  and  dreamed  about  her,  and 
made  her  presents  of  oranges  and  nuts,  and 
would  have  made  her  presents  of  pearls  and 
diamonds  if  he  could  have  afforded  it  out  of  his 
pocket-money,  but  he  couldn't.  And  so  her  fa- 
ther— O,  he  AVAS  a  Tartar !  Keeping  the  boys 
up  to  the  mark,  holding  examinations  once  a 
month,  lecturing  upon  all  sorts  of  subjects  at  all 
sorts  of  times,  and  knowing  everything  in  the 
world  out  of  book.     And  so  this  boy " 

"  Had  he  any  name  ?"  asks  my  respected 
friend. 

"No  he  hadn't,  Gran.  Ha!  ha!  There 
now !     Caught  you  again  ! " 

After  this,  they  had  another  laugh  and  an- 
other hug,  and  then  our  boy  went  on. 

"  Well !  And  so  this  boy  he  had  a  friend 
about  as  old  as  himself,  at  the  same  school,  and 
his  name  (for  He  had  a  name,  as  it  happened) 
was — let  me  remember — was  Bobbo." 

"Not  Bob,"  says  my  respected  friend. 

"  Of  course  not, "  says  Jemmy.  ' '  What  made 
you  think  it  was,  Gran  ?  Well !  And  so  this 
friend  was  the  cleverest  and  bravest  and  best 
looking  and  most  generous  of  all  the  friends  that 
ever  were,  and  so  he  was  in  love  with  Seraphina's 
sister,  and  so  Seraphina's  sister  was  in  love  with 
hhn,  and  so  they  all  grew  up." 

"Bless  us !"  says  my  respected  friend.  "They 
were  very  sudden  about  it." 

"So  they  all  grew  up,"  our  boy  repeated, 
laughing  heartily,  "and  Bobbo  and  this  boy  went 
away  together  on  horseback  to  seek  their  for- 
tunes, and  they  partly  got  their  horses  by  favour, 
and  partly  in  a  bargain ;  that  is  to  say,  they  had 
saved  up  between  them  seven-and-fourpence,  and 
the  two  horses,  being  Arabs,  were  worth  more, 
only  the  man  said  he  would  take  that,  to  favour 
them.  Well !  And  so  they  made  their  fortunes, 
and  came  prancipg  back  to  the  school,  with  their 
pockets  full  of  gold  enough  to  last  for  ever.  And 
so  they  rjyig  at  the  parents'  and  ^-isitors'  bell 
(not  the  back  gate),  and  when  the  bell  was  an- 
swered they  proclaimed,  '  The  same  as  if  it  was 
scarlet  fever !  Every  boy  goes  home  for  an  in- 
definite period!'     And  then  there  was  great 


hurrahing,  and  then  they  kissed  Seraphina  and 
her  sister — each  his  own  love  and  not  the  other's 
on  any  account — and  then  they  ordered  the  Tar- 
tar into  instant  confinement." 

"Poor  man!"  said  my  respected  friend. 
"Into  instant  confinement.  Gran,"  repeated 
Jemmy,  trying  to  look  severe  and  roaring  with 
laughter,  "and  he  was  to  have  nothing  to  eat 
but  the  boys'  dinners,  and  was  to  drink  lialf  a 
cask  of  their  beer,  every  day.  And  so  then  the 
preparations  were  made  for  the  two  weddings, 
and  there  were  han]i)ers,  and  potted  tilings,  and 
sweet  things,  and  nuts,  and  postage-stamps,  and 
all  manner  of  things.  And  so  they  were  so 
jolly,  that  they  let  the  Tartar  out,  and  he  was 
jolly  too." 

"I  am  glad  they  let  him  out,"  says  my  re- 
spected friend,  "because  he  had  only  done  his 
duty." 

"Oh  but  hadn't  he  overdone  it  though !"  cried 
Jemmy.  "  Well !  And  so  then  this  boy  mount- 
ed his  horse,  with  his  bridle  in  his  arms,  and 
cantered  away,  and  cantered  on  and  on  till  he 
came  to  a  certain  place  wiiere  he'had  a  certain 
Gran  and  a  certain  godfather — not  you  two,  you 
know." 

"No,  no,"  we  both  said. 
"  And  there  he  was  received  with  great  re- 
joicings, and  he  filled  the  cupboard  and  the 
bookcase  with  gold,  and  he  showered  it  out  on 
his  Gran  and  his  godfather  because  they  were 
the  two  kindest  and  dearest  people  that  ever 
lived  in  this  world.  And  so  while  they  were 
sitting  up  to  their  knees  in  gold,  a  knocking  was 
heard  at  the  street  door,  and  who  should  it  be 
but  Bobbo,  also  on  horseback  with  his  bride  in 
his  arms,  and  what  had  he  come  to  say  but  that 
he  would  take  (at  double  rent)  all  the  Lodgings 
for  ever,  tkat  were  not  wanted  by  this  boy  and 
this  Gran  and  this  godfiither,  and  that  they 
would  all  live  together,  and  all  be  happy  !  And 
so  they  were,  and  so  it  never  ended !" 

"And  was  there  no  quarrelling?"  asked  my 
respected  friend,  as  Jemmy  sat  upon  her  lap,  and 
hugged  her. 

"No!     Nobody  ever  quarrelled." 
"And  did  the  money  never  melt  away?" 
"No !     Nobody  could  ever  spend  it  all." 
"And  did  none  of  them  ever  grow  older?" 
"No!     Nobody  ever  grew  older  after  that." 
"And  did  none  of  them  ever  die  ?" 
"O  no,  no,  no.  Gran  I"  exclaimed  our  dear 
boy,    laying  his  cheek   upon   her   breast,  and 
drawing   her  closer   to   him.-    "Nobody  ever 
died." 

"Ah  Major,  Major,"  says  my  respected  friend, 
smiling  benignly  upon  me.  "This  beats  our 
stories.  Let  us  end  with  the  Boy's  story.  Ma- 
jor, for  the  Boy's  story  is  the  best  that  is  ever 
told !" 

In  submission  to  which  request  on  the  part  of 
the  best  of  women,  I  have  hei-e  noted  it  down  as 
faithfully  as  my  best  abilities,  coupled  with  my 
best  intentions,  would  admit,  subscribing  it  with 
my  name, 

J.  JACKMAN. 
The  PABLorns. 
Mrs.  Likriper's  Lodgikgs. 


Bec.i  1863. 


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LE.^BNlN(i  ABOUT  RlGHT  AND  WrONQ. 

THE  POETS  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 
Selected  and  Edited  by  the  liev.  Kobrbt  Aris  Will- 
WOTT.  With  English  and  American  Additions,  arranged 
by  E.  A.  DuYCKiNCK.  Illustrated  with  132  Engraviugg 
drawn  by  .American  and  English  Artists,  including  Bir- 
kot  Foster,  W.  Harvey,  Harrison  Weir,  J.  K  .Alillais, 
D.  Maclise,  AV.  Mulready,  C.  StanfielJ,  J.  Gilbert,  F. 
K.  Picker.^gill,  J.  Tenniel,  T.  Dalziel,  J.  H.  Hill,  J.  W. 
Casilear,  F.  O.  C.  Darley,  and  others.  In  elegant  small 
4to  form,  printed  on  Superfine  Tinted  Paper,  richly 
bound  in  extra  Cloth  beveled,  gilt  edges,  $4  00;  Full 
Turkey  Morocco,  $6  50. 

HENRY  MAYHEW'S  SERIES  FOR  THE  YOUNG. 
Beautifully  Illustrated.  4  vols.  IGmo,  Cloth.  $1 00  each. 
The  BoYiiocD  of  Martin  Luther. — Young  Ben- 
jamin FB.iNKi.iN. — Young  Humphrey  Davy  ;  ob.  The 
WoNDEEs  OF  Science— The  Early  Life  of  Fergu- 
son ;  OB,  The  Story  of  the  PEABAUT-Bor  Puilosophee. 

HARPER'S  STORY  BOOKS.  A  Series  of  Xairatives, 
Biographies,  and  TiUes  for  tlie  Instniction  and  Enter- 
tainment of  the  Young.  By  Jacob  Abbott.  Embel- 
lished with  more  than  1000  beautiful  Engravings. 

"  Harper's  Story  Books"  can  be  obt;iiiicd  complete 
in  Twelve  Volumes,  boiipd  in  blue,  each  one  containing 

Three  Stories,  at  the  price  of    ~"  ildlars^or  in 

Thirty-six  thin  Volumes,  bound 
One  &tory,  at  the  Price  of  I'igh' 
umes  sold  s;  parately,  at  $1  25  e 
arately  at  5fl  cents  each. 

The  following  ai'e  the  Titles  . 

Vol.  I.  Brufc Willie  and  t' 

Gate.    Vol.  II.  The  Little  Lou  .     .  ,^^ 

Vol.  HI.  Virginia Timboo  a.mi  u^. •*-*■* Urftfy 

Fanny.    Vol.  IV.  The  Harper  Establishmenf..::-;rmr^ _t 

lin.— The  Studio.  Vol.  V.  The  S;ory  of  Ancient  Histo- 
ry  ^The  Story  of  English  History. — The  Story  of  Amer- 
ican HLstoiy.  Vol.  VI.  John  True. — I'Jfred.— The  Mu- 
Beum.  Vol.  VII.  The  ICngineer. — Humbles  among  the 
Alps ^The  Three  Gold  Dollars.  Vol.  VIII.  The  Gib- 
raltar Gallciy. —  The  Alcove. — Diakgue-s.  Vol.  IX. 
The  Great  i;im. — \\\n\,  Margaret. — Vernon.  Vol.  X. 
(;arl  and  Jocko. — Lapstone. — Orkney  the  Pe.ncemflker. 

Vol.  XI.  Judge  Justin Minigo.— Jasper.     Vol.  XU. 

Congo. — Viola. — Little  Paul. 


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